California Dreaming: How Frederick the Field Mouse Taught Me to Survive Winter in Chicago

In a children's book called Frederick by Leo Lionni all the field mice collect nuts, corn, wheat, and straw to survive the winter that they will spend in a cold stone wall. All the field mice that is except Frederick. 

Fellow field mice insinuate that Frederick is lazy as they work and he stays still and quiet with eyes half-mast page after page. But Frederick is gathering something of a different ilk to help the mice get through winter. He gathers colors, sun rays, and words.

When the last corn kernel is gone and many more winter days to go, Frederick shares his supplies. Now Frederick's eyes are opened wide as he describes colors and sun, and recites poetry to the mice whose eyes are tightly shut, taking it in. They are energized by his color talk. A warmth bubbles around them as Frederick describes the sun. Time flies as his poetry fills the now warmed stone wall nest.

Page one of Frederick: "All along the meadow where the cows grazed and the horses ran, there was an old stone wall." 

Page one of Chicago winter: All along the cold streets where the people stood dazed and the train ran, there was a dark downtown Chicago swallowing all who entered.

I burrow into my sleeping bag coat that is still not enough to keep my thighs from stinging in the slicing wind. Shoulder to shoulder with strangers, I trudge, we all trudge over the bridge to the train station. Its revolving doors slice and dice thousands of people in and out all day long. 

Then I am sweating on the train in its sickly white light that makes us unable to see out the windows and hems us in even more tightly. Someone starts eating a pastrami sandwich.

I shut my eyes tightly like the field mice and conjure up the colors, sun, and words that have been waiting in my reservoir since August in Los Angeles.

"I gather colors. ... For winter is gray." Frederick

At first glance from the 7th floor balcony near Hollywood and LaBrea, the Los Angeles sprawled before me is colorless. The low-slung buildings are muted tones of sand and sun-bleached grays and whites. A dustiness and hint of sand in the air makes it look like something is being stirred up down there. Dogs barking, light laughter, thin music expand over the distance and float to my ears. The hum is punctuated by words and phrases that suddenly come in clear as if a microphone were being passed through the streets below. Helicopters perpetually hover about adding to the rising suspense. The city seems agitated like it's gearing up, itching for something big to happen. 

 

We descend from our watchtower view of the L.A. scene and head over to Runyon Canyon. It's a popular hike up a very well worn, very wide path. A party atmosphere pulses incongruous with the natural setting. When we get up to a lookout point, I have an even broader view of L.A than I did on the balcony. Like a desert, there is a big open feeling. An airy, light quality. 

 

From this vantage point and with a little concentration, I start to see some interesting things emerge from the monotone mist of L.A. The trees are quirky and sporadic. Around Hollywood, there are only a few--comically tall, alone, peeking around, poking out here and there. A bending cypress like a joker's upturned shoe. A skinny mile-high palm tree with a puff ball of fronds at the top like a Dr. Suess tree. Is that an image of a woman on that building? 

                                                           

Now I'm down on the streets, a passenger riding L.A. and soaking in the details just like Frederick. The traffic in L.A. is stunning--omnipresent in place and time--but people don't seem to mind. I sure don't mind because it gives me the time to skim, scan, and absorb the close up view of the magnificent mash up--Art Deco next to a shack next to a black building with a 50 foot high painting of Jim Morrison's face next to an old European style bungalow next to a strip mall with sushi, nails, Chinese food, spa, and organic juice next to a wavy sided building next to a tall pink tube next to a Kermit the Frog straddling a building.

                                                               

 

It all feels kind of shanty. There's no unifying theme. Like it all sprung up over night or is about to collapse. It should make a person anxious--the temporary feel of it--but it doesn't. People seem cool with it--a little old, a little new--it's all good. And all the perfect setting for color collecting.

The colors of L.A. come from the street art. You feel their beat jump off the walls as you roll by in your slow moving vehicle. The reason the colors pop so hard is that frankly the backdrop is drab. It's subtle, but I suspect with sincere intention. Like the creators of this city know how to set the stage and guide the viewers' eyes. Doesn't it make sense that a film town like L.A would know how to effectively use a backdrop? The hazy, grainy quality of the scene lets the colors sizzle with electric energy.

    

 

"I gather sun rays for the dark cold winter days." Frederick

After a couple days in Hollywood, I check into The Line hotel in Koreatown. The kids are still on vacation but I have to work. Throughout the following days, they come and go to The Line when they're not viewing expensive homes with their cousin who recently became a real estate agent or being treated to trampoline parks and shopping in the Fashion District (where apparently you can get like 20 t-shirts for 10 bucks).                                     

My niece drives me to The Line and gets to bear witness to my mild shock at the lobby loudness and the youth factor. Does the lobby double as a night club? My niece gives me a dubious look. I chose The Line online for its artsy look--just like I'd chosen Sixty L.E.S in Manhattan, Freehand in Miami, and The Curtis in Denver--they all looked cool. 

Online hotel photos can be quite seductive. Hyper-focused, staged little views of perfection suck me in like art. That wasp nest hanging lamp, that set of slipcast cleaning bottles in pink, lime green, and white (modern art pieces), a Donkey Kong game in room (!! at The Curtis), a rooftop fire pit, an aqua lounger with popping orange throw pillows, black and white photo of a torso, chalkboard with cocktails of smoked pineapple, ginger, lime, and basil, bunk bed with a ladder and a little nook carved into the wall for your glasses, mesh curtain, scoop back desk chair, floor to ceiling window--you get the picture. I'm looking for a modern art museum with a pool and room service. And I'd like to it be just like the photos please--devoid of people, pool with perfectly still water, not a splash, not a soggy towel to be seen on the empty, orderly lounge chairs--all open and ready for me.

  

I know I could look on TripAdvisor and see "real photos" but I like my fantasy that I'll own the place. And in a way that's true. A good hotel will make you feel that way. "Your room, madame." All cleaned and staged just for you. All four of the hotels I mentioned did not disappoint on giving me that special "here it is; just like we promised; all for you; picture perfect!" feeling. But all four of these hotels also reminded me of my age the minute I walked into the lobby. Online I'm like a 30 year old urban designer wearing square glasses and a choker. In person I'm a 50 year old lady who likes comfy clothes. I do manage to find some stylish comfy clothes but I am not in the league of the young set occupying these hotel lobbies.

And of all these hotels, The Line is the youngest set yet. Distracted, strangely clad bodies dart here and there, guffawing in groups, OMGing on cells, giddy energy, maybe a tinge of desperation--like there is a collective hum of all the brains thinking--Where should we go? Where's the place to be? Let's go, come on, it's here, no it's here. Immediately my niece asks if I am sure about staying here. I almost say, "No, not at all" and "don't leave me here" like a kid being dropped off at the wrong camp where none of her friends are and everyone is there to do bungee jumping but she was sure she was signed up for sewing.

I shift into judgement gear real fast--a defense mechanism. "Look at her shredded pants! Jezuus what is with the ridiculously loud music? No one has suitcases. What if I can't sleep? All these young people are so loud, rude, vapid, privileged, ditzy..." Hey wait, I catch myself. I have zero proof of rudeness, vapidity, ditziness. I'm judging them in defense because I assume they are judging me. But they could probably give two shits if I am pulling a suitcase of comfy clothes and aching to get in a quiet room to read. Maybe they are nice. Maybe one of them might even be interested in what I'm reading. So I have to stay--to give them a chance--to not invent their harsh, critical judgement of me when I was the one judging them. So in the elevator, I follow my niece's lead and join in the small talk--"Is it always so crowded?" "No there's a special party on the second floor. You should come." Smiles. Genuine. 

The hallways in The Line are post-apocalyptic. Or retro Russia (maybe not retro; I don't know; I've never been to Russia.). Or maybe current North Korea. Yes. I was in these hallways in my mind when I read The Orphan Master's Son. The walls are pure, thick slabs of gray concrete. The carpet is the same gray as the walls but with mustard yellow and dusty orange shapes that make me think of Telatubbies and Keith Harring figures. You can barely see them because the hall is lit with dim fluorescent lights that line the sides of the ceiling. My niece is laughing as she escorts me to my "prison cell" as she calls it.

 

It is creepy. Scary even. But then wacky with the carpet design. Which kind of makes it more scary. It evokes tension and intrigue. I can't stop thinking of the government building described in The Orphan Master's Son with a crazy dictator prancing its halls that I imagined to look just like this. Many doors--each leading to weirdness inside. One door opens to a long, descending staircase to the bowels of the building where the dictator has an American woman held captive, forcing her to copy his autobiography over and over for years. Another door opens to treasures received as gifts from world leaders--so many that they are stacked to the ceiling. Another opens to prisoners lashed to wet pipes. 

Just the hallway of The Line evokes all that to me. You just don't get your brain pricked like that at a Holiday Inn Express. My room is the perfect, funky little haven I hoped for--remote control blinds, three walls of concrete and one complete glass, the pool and Koreatown at the foot of my bed, a rock and plastic army guys, and room service with chef Roy Choi's bean pastries served in an army style canteen and wrapped in a cloth bundle with a green army thermos of black coffee.

 

  

Who would think working in a concrete box would be invigorating and spark my creativity? I feel so cool working in this room. And my work is so much easier. Ideas come to me, I speak more confidently in conference calls, and things seem organized and manageable. Well of course--my room is cleaned daily, fresh towels delivered, coffee a phone call away. 

I'm pretending this is my ultra cool life where my kids are picked up and taken on adventures, food is placed outside my door, and the temperature, cleanliness, and visuals are aligned just so. This so my day can be free to channel my master creativity. This creativity cannot be contained and caged in an office. I must be on the move, taking my body, which is simply a vessel for the intuitive, groundbreaking ideas, to any place it calls for in order to bring forth the surge of creation. 

So I go to the pool. 

 

To get to the pool, you have to walk through the Commissary--a glass ceiling atrium cafe with espresso, smoothies, and delicious niblets like fried curry cauliflower (served again the army tin). I did not walk through. I stopped, sat down, ordered espresso, a smoothie, and fried curry cauliflower. I open my laptop and get meaningful work done. I take a selfie with the laptop and send it to my boss. She loves it. 

    

To work in open air is like a wild stallion flaring its nostrils, just about to run free. It's like my eyes and ears were shuttered windows and someone came along and flung the shutters open. Fresh air has entered and taken up residency in my head--the possibilities are suddenly clear and endless and exciting. I feel so great and emboldened that I decide to continue my work from a lounge chair by the pool. I am strategic in my chair selection. As much as I love the sun, I have finally learned after years that the sun really loves me too much. The sun is attracted to my light skin as if it were fire and I had applied lighter fluid instead of sunscreen. So despite my perma-waxy gloss from layers of thick, white sunscreen, I still need shade. 

Seconds after I am settled, with laptop about to pop open...after just one more wiggle of my toes in that sweet California air, a thin, hairless (I mean shaven clean all over with purpose) twenty-something year old guy plops himself down at the end end of my lounge chair with a fun little flutter. He says, "Hey girl." 

From the previous hour in the cafe and all the people watching that entailed, I was pretty sure this guy was the "pool boy." And he does have two towels tucked under his arm. But then how does that explain the "Hey girl" like he is my BFF who has just stepped away for a sec with a BRB and was now RB*? All is soon explained as my BFF starts chatting and eventually gets to the part where he offers towels and "just anything, anything I need." Because he lovingly call himself the pool boy, so can I. 

* BRB = Be Right Back per my 10 year old

This dude comes back four times in the 30-45 minutes I stay at the pool. I hate it. I don't want to chat. I feel rude for cutting it short. I don't need towels though I take them anyway. They do end up being incredibly helpful in propping up my laptop. I don't want a drink ... do I? Then I start fretting about whether or not to tip him. I don't have cash with me. This pool boy is fawning over me with genuine niceness. Wait, is it genuine or does he just want a tip? His chatting and trying to make me comfortable is confusing me and worse yet, starting to make me comfortable. My mind gnaws on the tip issue and the resistance to being pampered. Ack! I have to get out of here. 

The next day I go to the pool to work again. This time my niece brings my daughter. My niece is stunning and has a style of dressing that is well--quite a lot of bling. She likes big necklaces and bigger earrings. She likes tight, tiny dresses, heels, patterns, glitz, ball gowns, baubles, flowing layers--just everything. It seems crazy on a hanger but when she puts it on her athletic body, no matter how nuts you thought the outfit was, on her it's classy. Her confidence and gusto tame any outfit and you see just her--larger-than-life. The clothes dull and fade to inconsequential to her deep, inner beauty. And my daughter? I am super biased but she has all that at age 10. She's carefree, thoughtful, and looks at others with giving eyes like they are the beautiful ones. 

So when these two walk in, all heads turn. They own the place just like that. Those pool boys zip over to us. Two pool boys they get! My niece is in her realm. She is social and confident and curious so she's talking to the pool boys right away. My daughter joins in the easy banter and they all laugh--ha ha ha--and I think, They like this! Why aren't they fretting over the "faux friendship for a tip" stuff? When the pool boys go off to get sunscreen, goggles, towels, and ice water for them, I tell my niece how uncomfortable I get being waited on like that. I tell her they aren't genuine; they just want a tip. Did I mention she's also smart as a whip and insightful as ... well as a 50 year old should be? She's in her 20s. She tells me it's good they have jobs and it's not such a bad job to help people feel pampered for a tip and what's wrong with getting pampered? I unclench my ass as I see her point and start to imagine succomming to their services.

 

(That's one of the pool boys in the hat.)

We go back to the pool three more times over the next couple days. This has become my daughter's favorite thing to do. The pool boys know her name. My tips get bigger each day. I'm having smoothies and blue drinks sent to my lounge chair. The pool boys get the umbrella angled just right for my shade. They still plop down at the end of the lounge chair now and again and say familiar things like about how they drank too much the night before. But I listen and think about my 20s. And realize these guys are pros. I only have to move my hand toward my phone or laptop and off they go. I wiggle my toes past the line of shade and into the California sun. Soak it up. I'm going to need it for the Chicago winter. Thanks to the pool boys at The Line (and my niece and daughter) for getting me to it.

  

Frederick gathered words. "For the winter days are long and many, and we'll run out of things to say."

By mid-February in Chicago, when the commute makes you wonder if you've flat-lined, the California colors and sun rays are just vapors. But the words and sounds I stored from L.A. get me through. In particular, the Alabama Shakes concert under the stars at the Greek Theatre. Brittany Howard cradled my soul with her voice that night. A voice that could go from sepia tone lullaby to lispy, hardy, sweet, ferocious in just one mouthful. 

                            

On that Chicago train with Alabama Shakes thrumming through my headphones, I am transported to the warm L.A. evening when we were nestled between Brittany in her lime light glow and the canyon walls. With about 5000 brothers and sisters around me, Brittany and her back up singers sang us all into an eyes half-mast trance. Her fiery words heat me--"pass me the whisky; pass me the gin; pass me whatever there's drank left in" from Always Alright just as much as her sweet words--"See I've been havin' me a real hard time but it feels so nice to know I'm gonna be alright" from This Feeling.

Driving up the mountain to the Greek Theatre, following others, being followed by others, felt like seeking the messiah. I'm sure I wasn't the only one who found holiness and grace in the music of Alabama Shakes. When the road ran out, traffic directors pointed off road to a grassy patch. We were the first car to go this way so we kept going, not sure where to stop. We ended up in a dry clearing with what appeared to be about 10 or 12 large stones sitting around. The sun was going down and in the dusk it was hard to tell what the stones really were but their placement in the middle of what we thought was the road was ominous. My niece veered the car slowly to turn around. The headlights shone on the stones and revealed that they were coyotes. Like statues, they seemed to be guarding something just up that mountain.

The evening started out warm but got cool as all L.A. evenings do. My daughter was wearing a long blue sleeveless tye-dyed dress, looking like Nefertiti. I don't remember what I was wearing. I so often think it doesn't matter because I get no attention when I'm with "the beautiful people"--my son, daughter, and niece. They attract people like honey. I expect to look behind them and see people we've just passed frozen in amber with expressions of wonder and devotion on their faces. Like they have seen Medusa's angelic sister. I have to work hard to remind myself that it does matter for me to think of myself as honey too. Brittany helps me do that. Her confidence, voice, guitar, dresses, lisp, short hair, thick forearms--she is honey. And reminds me that I am too.

Now whenever I put Alabama Shakes in my ears, even in the depth of Chicago winter, I'm warm from within. I'm there in Brittany's honey words on a starry August evening in Los Angeles.

Like Frederick, I am surviving this winter by conjuring and devouring the colors, sun, and words that I gathered this summer. Frederick gathered his "not far from the barn and granary." I gathered mine from Los Angeles, California.