From the redwood forests

I’m in the California redwood forest right now. Doesn’t that make you want to sing that song:  “This land is your land . . . this land is my land . . . from California . . . to the New York Islands . . . from the REDWOOD FORESTS to the Gulf Stream waters . . . this land is made for you and me.”?

It doesn’t?  I can’t think “redwood forest” without singing that whole song in my head.

So, I’m at this writing conference and wondering (as usual) why in the world I came since I don’t actually have time to write anymore.  You all know that because I hardly have time to blog.  But spring has sprung here in northern California and my friend, Sarah Markley, is here (you can read her at http://sarahmarkley.com) and we were assigned to this huge cabin.  I may never leave.

Except, of course, that I left my kids and husband at home and what am I without my kids and husband?  Wait.  What am I without my husband and kids?  Well, I am weirdly devoid of dirty laundry and noise.

My daughter tried to convince me to bring her with me.

Then this morning, she suggested maybe I should go every other year, like maybe NEXT YEAR, not this year.

Then she asked if I’d leave her a note and “did you remember to give me a little present every day while you’re gone like you did last year?”

I did.  Of course.

I’m trying to see how many times I can say “of course” in the course of this blog post.  I’m only half-listening to myself since I’m at a table with two other women (Sarah and Shannon Primicerio . . . you should google her . . . she writes for teenage girls) . . . and this is an awesome place for eavesdropping.

Anyway, so I flew out today at 1:50 p.m. and this time, I chose a seat on the mountain side of the plane and was rewarded with the sight of four or five mountains:  Mt. Rainier, Mt. Hood, Mt. St. Helen’s, Mt. Shasta.  The foothills looked like they’d been sprinkled with powdered sugar.  So, remember this:  when you fly to California from Washington, sit on the left side of the plane.

I arrived at the baggage claim at the very second my shockingly orange bag emerged.  I walked up just as the bus to the rental car place pulled up.  I gave a coupon to the rental car guy and he took $22 off my total . . . then when I walked into the parking lot to retrieve my economy car–I’d reserved the smallest one available–the woman told me that they were out of really tiny cars and so I’d have to settle for a red Volkswagen bug.  Total cost for four days?  $66.

I have a thing for Volkswagen bugs.  I have always wanted one, ever since my high school best friend’s dad bought her a yellow one.   I had no car.  I had a twelve speed bike.  I loved that bike.

So, I drove the through winding hills–no thanks to my GPS which refused to speak to the satellites–and relied on my iPhone to get me here to Mt. Hermon.  That took about 45 minutes.

I arrived at 4:30 p.m. . .  . or something like that.  Our cabin is big.  I have my own bedroom and my own half-bathroom.  I KNOW.

(I smell fire.  I hope that’s a fireplace and not someone’s laptop exploding.)

I met up with Sarah (did you click over to her blog yet?  Sarahmarkley.com.)  We ate dinner.  We heard a speaker speak and sing.

Sarah and Shannon have been awake since 3:30 a.m. and 4 a.m. respectively.  They look a little droopy.  I am used to staying up until 1 a.m. to 2 a.m. . . . but my eyeballs feel a little gritty.

I just hope I can sleep tonight.

Okay, well, there you go.  I know.  You’re surprised since I am not usually here.  Ever.

I hope it made sense.  Because I am not reading it over.  Okay, well, I’m reading it over but only once.