Happy New Year... Great Old Tahoe Memories... and Continuous Hauntings!

Snowed in we are (yet again), up here on the hill in the woods. Castle GreenFuzz (as I have dubbed our home) is comfy and warm and quiet inside, thankfully so, as the atrocious weather last evening dumped another three or so icy inches outside. I have only ventured outdoors in the brisk 8 degree air to let the dog go pee pee and to refill the bird feeders, then scuttled quickly back inside to shake off the chill.

Chills, you say? Chills abound, indeedy! Let's talk about that for a minute now. I happened upon a few vintage photos of the famous (or, infamous, if you prefer) Cal-Neva Lodge and Casino at Lake Tahoe. The lodge is located on the scenic north shore in Crystal Bay, straddling both the California and Nevada statelines (hence the name), and boasts a truly interesting history. In its heyday, it was a hangout for Mafioso gangsters and the likes of entertainment dignitaries such as the Rat Pack (Frank Sinatra himself once owned the establishment, and used the lodge's subterranean tunnels to scurry about without being noticed), Jack and Bobby Kennedy, and, of course, Marilyn Monroe, who stayed there at her small bungalow the week before her mysterious death. And, yes, there have been accounts of spectral Monroe sightings at or around the bungalow in recent years.  

Early photo of the Lodge, before the addition and tower were added

Everything about the Cal-Neva Lodge invokes chills in so many ways. Local lore claims it's built on ancient Indian sacred land and that restless spirits abound. 

The Front Room, where spirit mists like the one above have been reported

It does have a very unusual feel to it, to be sure, as there is some sort of vibe that seemingly emanates from the old wood paneling and stone architecture. The last time I was there in the late summer of 2006, I felt that deeply in a variety of ways. 

My photo of the Front Room (note orbs near ceiling)

But that remains to be told here; I'm getting ahead of the story....

Refurbished entrance and tower in rear, where we performed the deed!

A lot of my old memories have become liked aged tabloid photos: drained of their critical color, their elements are now rendered nearly black and white, or at best, sepia-toned. Yet that is not so for the Cal-Neva (nor any of Lake Tahoe for that matter). Those images remain pristine and crystal-clear like the otherworldly-blue waters of the mile-high lake itself, which some claim is bottomless (highly impossible - the deepest section that has been mapped by bathysphere is certainly quite deep: 1,645 feet). I can vividly recall the abundant A-frame Swiss chalet and log cabin homes dotting the lake shore, the brilliant high-altitude sunshine, and lovely, conifer-covered granite mountains laden with a thick carpet of pine needles that crunched as I tread upon it, releasing their heavenly-fresh aroma in my nose. Or maybe it's the three large pine trees we have here in our front yard I'm smelling... regardless, Tahoe beckons to me often, and I seem to reverberate on its cerulean blue frequency. Perhaps it's the Celt in me... or some specks of old ancestral Nordic blood I must retain from pillages past. 


Either way, it's my favorite terrain, and I get all verklempt as I reminisce of it.

No such thing as a bad view anywhere

Better put, Tahoe haunts me...

Lake Tahoe's Emerald Bay section, showing Fannette island

You've never seen such shades of blue!

We spent nearly every summer there when I was growing up as a kid in the smoggy, stiflingly-hot San Fernando Valley in the '60s and '70s ("But it's a DRY HEAT," I was plentifully reminded by my east coast parents who knew what humidity was like).


My Brooklyn-born folks loved the place - Daddy in particular, as he was an avid gambler and going there for our summer vay-cays afforded him the opportunity to temporarily leave his dull TV/electronics repairman job and get some high-altitude thrills. For Mom, well, the Cal-Neva once being owned by her idol was more than enough reason to go! 


During the days, we'd go kayaking or simply float serenely in the lake, bake in the sun on the clean sandy beaches, go sight-seeing, catch crawdads in the lake or trout in the nearby Truckee River. At night, we'd slather cream on our sunburns, dress up, and venture out to eat. Always, we went to Bacci's Inn, a rustic, Old World Italian restaurant that had the best food outside of Little Italy. Our yearly pilgrimage to Bacci's was something we looked forward to with great excitement and much salivation. (The minestrone soup alone is to die for!)

Salivating outside the much-loved Bacci's Inn 

After our feast, the oldsters would try their luck on the one-armed bandits or at the crap tables back at the sparkly Cal-Neva casino. Of course, us under-age minors got shuffled off to the kiddies' arcade with our pockets full of quarters, where some of us sure played a mean pinball. We had soft-serve ice cream cones for dessert and would walk around barefoot at twilight on the shore, reveling in the last vestiges of warmth left in the sand before the moon rose over the horizon and stole it away for the night.

Well-fed, thanks to Bacci's

I love and miss Tahoe greatly, mourning its remoteness like a lover in a long-distance relationship. When Daddy and I discussed his last wishes, he said that he wanted to have his ashes scattered there. After his death in September 2005, Mark and I arranged to fly out the following year on the first anniversary and do just this. It was a crackling-hot day (but very dry, remember) as we drove around the 75 or so lakeshore miles in our rental car (a sofa-on-wheels/Pimp Daddy-style Lincoln Continental) to find just the *right* spot to carry out our task.

Granite, pine, and heavenly blue skies

Emerald Bay is a small finger that juts out on the lower west end of the lake's California side, and as we happened upon it, I knew in my heart that this was the perfect place. This section of the lake is most well-known for both Fannette Island, where almost hundred years ago an eccentric woman built a stone house that she rowed out to each day in order to have afternoon tea; and, directly across from it on the shore, Vikingsholm Castle: a breathtaking marvel of Nordic architecture, complete with wooden beams carved into the shape of dragon heads and a living sod roof (I want a sod roof! I want a sod roof! Wait, I'm an eccentric woman, too, and I want a Viking castle!).

We hiked several miles down the Rubicon Trail's winding hilly path in the bright sunshine (me, clutching the urn of ashes in a discrete cardboard box) to the shore where I searched for a private area to say a prayer and release Daddy's earthly remains. 

Suddenly, there it was at the water's edge: an ancient tree stump, its wood bent over in a surreal way, forming a virtual archway to the lake. I have never seen a tree in this shape in my entire life. It was astonishing, and almost unsettling in a way, to see something as magical as this. 

Daddy's Archway

Never mind that such an act in a state park may have been against the law, likely carrying heavy fines, but dammit, this was beyond the mere laws of ordinary mortals - I had an important job to do! And it was here that most of Daddy's ashes were scattered over the lake and to the wind. 

I say 'most,' because I knew where to scatter the rest... Cal-Neva Lodge!!!

That evening, Mark and I snuck into the Tower section of the lodge - no easy feat, as security is tight and there are cameras everywhere. You need to be a guest and have a room key to access the elevator (neither of which we were or had!). We craftily made our way to the top floor, walked to the front of the hallway and casually opened up the door to the balcony overlooking the front of the hotel... and sent a billowing cloud of Daddy flying out over the rooftop into the night! Across the famous hangout for mobsters, starlets, politicians, to mingle with the spirits of Native peoples.... POOF!

Just after the deed was done... hee hee hee!

Holy crap, if someone had looked up and seen us, they may have feared we were dumping gawdknowswhat and called the cops! Obviously we didn't want to push our luck, and cheesed it ASAP, cackling to ourselves as we blithely strode out the front door and into the cool night.

I'd held so much emotions inside myself during the past year after his passing, and now found it being finally released, crying with a mixture of grief and utter hilarity at our stunt, and knew in my heart that Daddy was having himself a big laugh, too. I mean, what balls I must have had to attempt this. Was it worth risking getting arrested for? Shit, yeah! And I'd do it again in a heartbeat!

Please take note, as I, too, am planning to have my earthly remains dispersed in such a way... but first, I insist that everyone parties first, hearty and long. The Irish in me demands it!

PART 2 of Cal-Neva and Lake Tahoe adventures to come. Stay tuned!

http://www.vikingsholm.org/

http://naturalplane.blogspot.com/2008/10/cal-neva-resort-still-haunted-by-famous.html

http://hauntedtahoe.blogspot.com/2008/08/cal-neva-lodge-investigation.html

A Wonderful Autumn, full of Love and Fun!

Mark and I had a blast as usual, filled with fun, songs, friends, food, and more love than I ever could have imagined. Here is a photo of us taken at the Halloween show the Exotic Ones and Secret Commonwealth put on this year in Nashville.

Like our motto says: Growing older is mandatory, but growing up is optional!

Halloween tales, pumpkins, friendship, and midnight dancing...

And oh, it was wondrous, indeed!

The Last One Out (the Halloween play our friend, John Davis, wrote and directed) saw a sold-out performance last night at Encore Theater. 

Our freshly carved Jack O'Lanterns and corn stalks await you at theater's entrance

The Secret Commonwealth played live before the show and during intermission. People in the audience laughed, gasped, cried, and laughed again... reliving their own childhoods and coming-of-age in a magical two hours among mutual friends and family. 

John Davis, the maker of magical things

I'm sad that the play's run ends today, but am so proud of John for bringing it to life.

The awesome cast of The Last One Out takes a final bow

Needless to say, Mark gave the show a remarkable and poignant performance as the narrator/grown up version of Jack Daves. Honey, I salute you, and am proud beyond words. Kisses and huggies!

Stopped by two pumpkin patches yesterday on our way out to the show and in the late afternoon autumn sunlight, was bedazzled by the sights and smells and colors that can only be conjured properly during this time of year. The first one was in West Meade, the second, out in the beautiful countryside in Lebanon. Both were delightful! It was a perfect day for reveling amongst the gourds, too, with a dry, cool wind a-blowin' in the bluest of blue skies. 

Blue autumn skies and corn stalks and hay bales and pumpkins...these are a few of my favorite things!

I could live in a pumpkin patch all the time, surrounded by fat gourds, vivid buckets of chrysanthemums, and framed by the striking foliage hues. 

Pumpkins so numerous and colorful, lining up as if they were fat puppies waiting to be adopted.

So many fine, plump gourds! So little time. 

I'll take this one!

There were a few varieties I have not really seen before - namely, the 'Fairy Tale' (aka Cinderella pumpkin) type, which I am completely enamored with. They truly had a supernatural quality to them, and you can easily imagine Cinderella's carriage being transformed from one of them. 

The Fairy Tale pumpkin lives up to its moniker!

It came in several resplendent shapes and colors

Is it possible to fall in love with a pumpkin? Well, maybe not in the traditional sense, of course... but I did. Mark anticipates me bringing home at least a dozen of these exquisite specimens. I'm anxious to grow some of them as well, and will create another new pumpkin patch in our yard early next spring. 

Whimsical hay bales added a cute creative touch

Lest we forget - we carved our own pumpkins yesterday morning. What a joy that is. 

Let the fun begin!

If I could do this once a month (as opposed to just once a year), I'd be a much happier person. Not that I'm sad, mind you, I just derive so much pleasure from it!

Mmm! Guts!

We don't simply toss out the innards - nay! Our kitchen gets mighty busy as we cook plenty of marvelous dishes, from roasting the seeds, to harvest breads and muffins and even a Native American stew with pumpkin, sweet potato, onions and corn. Ahh, the smells emanating from the kitchen are hypnotic: cinnamon and allspice and ginger and nutmeg...

It nourishes both body and soul. 

Lighting the way in our kitchen

John's hearse emanated mystery and magic in anticipation of Halloween

Merry Christmas to All, and to All, a Fruitcake!

I’m bordering on hysteria when I think about admitting my shameful secret. It’s something that could potentially render me a laughingstock among my peers and blogreaders alike, but I believe in confession being good and cleansing for the soul, so here goes:

I loves me a fruitcake.

I’m talking about the actual food, not the derogatory English slang for a person of questionable mental capacity, though after you read this, you may harbor serious doubts about mine.

But here’s how it all happened.

Poopy and I were grocery shopping last week and happened upon a rather large basketful of colorful fruitcakes in the store aisle, making a few disparaging remarks and jokes as we sauntered past the display. We pride ourselves in being a very stalwart couple where trying new foodstuffs is concerned, and he toyed with the idea of actually purchasing one. 


Poopy’s far more adventurous than me, having tried actual haggis at a Scottish festival here a few years ago, plus he actually likes liver and onions (retch!), which, along with other nauseating organ meats, are verboten in the house, so for him to try a fruitcake was, well, a piece of cake.

After about a minute or so of bantering back and forth of “Really? You wanna try it, too?” we settled on a colorful variety made in Georgia by the Claxton Fruitcake Company (World famous since 1910 it said on the label, which was all the convincing I needed). I picked it up and was awestruck at its weight – it seemed heavy enough to wield as a cudgel. 

(Can you imagine the police report? “Victim was bludgeoned to death by a holiday cake.”)

As everyone knows, there are a lot of jokes about fruitcakes, the most well-known claiming there being only one on earth which makes its way around to each and every home, where the last recipient sends it off (or “re-gifting” as it was called on Seinfeld) to the next unwitting recipient. In all actuality, it has honorable beginnings, being a sort of autumn ceremonial cake replete with all the fruits of the harvest that was stored and eaten during the winter. And the Victorians? Well, they were enamored of their fruitcakes!

Yet in spite of its humble origins, The Hubby and I were outright horrified at the caloric-overload of the thing. Good common sense told us to run like hell, but like the denseness of a black hole pulling in objects around it, we were drawn back into its orbit. So in spite of the knowledge that close to four hundred carb-laden calories per slice (enough to sustain a small family in any third world country!) were at stake to indulge in this sinful creation, we stuck with our decision to try it.

Surely, I thought on the drive home, it will induce diabetes at the first bite, but we nonetheless tossed caution to the wind and purchased the stout log.

Now, let it be known that this was the first one I have ever paid to own. I vaguely recall many decades ago sampling a single slice at a holiday party and being utterly repulsed by it (think of the scene in the movie BIG when Tom Hanks spits out the caviar into his napkin and you get an idea of how I felt at the time about my mouthful of fruitcake), but buying one? Never. At least never, up till that day last week.

It languished on the counter but a few days before I said to The Hubby one night after dinner, “Well, are you up for a small slice?” He was game and thus our gastronomical adventure was about to begin.

Carefully slicing off a few thin chunks, I watched as they fell over off the loaf in slow-motion, all the butter and grease and fruity goo holding each and every diabolical crumb together before it hit the plate with a soft ploop sound. I picked up a sticky slice and examined it closely: lots of unidentifiable fruit pieces crammed in there, jostled up against one another, and so very many hunks of nuttage as well. There were many different colors, too, including what can only be described as nuclear green and clown blue. I had to wonder, where in the world do green maraschino cherries grow? Like George Carlin before me speculating where they kept the blue food, I pondered the same thing of the otherworldly-tinged Whatever Berry I was struggling to identify. I tentatively bit into the slice and chewed cautiously. Its overall consistency was more Gummi Bear than fresh fruit, but still not altogether unpleasant to masticate. 

                                              Let the Bacchanalia begin!

However, the overall sweetness of the concoction was tooth-achey in every way. My salivary glands squirted in frenzied overtime, trying to break down the sugary bolus as best they could before I could swallow it down the ol’ gullet.

I’m of the mind that if something this sweet is good, why not make it even better by adding some nice fine booze to it (like Kahlua over ice cream, y’know?). And that I voiced to dear Hubby O’ Mine, who piped in with “Let’s douse it with some Sailor Jerry’s rum.”

                                            Sodden drunk cakey goodness!

                                          

Well hey, no need to twist my little freckled arm.  A good few jiggers of the dark spiced rum later, and we found ourselves gobbling down several more thick slabs of the sodden cake until, suddenly, there was a definite and very heavy sickness to our stomachs. Ever eat too much Halloween candy and then get that sugar overload shock to your system? Yeah, well, that’s what it felt like. Should’ve quit while we were ahead (I’ll stoically insert a self-deprecating remark about ‘experience coming five seconds after you need it’ and be done with it) but it was all in the name of science. Or culinary adventure… eh, I dunno.

But I’ll tell you, I’m darn proud that I overcame the hurdle of such a maligned societal victual, and freely admit that, yes, I liked it. The loaf disappeared rather quickly over the course of a few short days. And I find myself suddenly craving it now. Dear God, please help me…

However. The same sentiment will never be said of liver and onions, so don’t get your hopes up, Poopy.