Christmas Week in San Felipe
There was something wrong with my family. I was certain of it. If we were a normal family, why were we on a bumpy road, heading for a week of Christmas vacation on a remote Mexican beach? Had we been bad children? That could not be it; Santa had left plenty of presents. But there was no telling about a father who blew up rockets for a living.
My brother and I took turns pinching each other in the back of the station wagon as it wound along a dirt road through Baja, California. We passed three-story high cactuses that looked like octopuses with thorns. We inhaled sand, riding into oblivion. I wondered if I were in a book about a girl kidnapped by space invaders from her new house in San Pedro and taken to this desert planet for Christmas. How far from the front yard full of small snowmen my father and I had built last Christmas in New Jersey! How desolate these cactuses, compared to the lavish, sparkling tree we had back East, with presents heaped beneath it.
My rocket engineer father had picked up our family and moved us to this new state, California, with just one month’s notice. He had landed a job in the new defense industry that was thriving in southern California. Goodbye, Red Flyer sled and icicles, Hello, going to the beach in December in flip-flops and shorts. Christmas would never be the same.
In all of my seven years of existence, I had never before had a problem with it. We made merry, got amazing presents, and fervently believed in Santa. I had tasted snow, learned to put on my own mittens and be wiggled into a snowsuit by my mother. I had explored the mysterious woods across the street, which in winter hung with glittering ice. I had sledded down our lane. But this year, everything about Christmas changed. Mom assured us that we would have Christmas in camp on the beach at San Felipe, a tree and everything. But I was already exquisitely aware of the disadvantages of being in this family. No one ever followed through on their promises.
The beach at San Felipe proved to be just as desolate a setting, and as unlikely to produce Christmas magic, as I had expected. Mom and I blew up air mattresses while Dad unpacked and set up the family tent. As we blew into the tubes, she made faces, crossing her eyes as her cheeks ballooned, getting me to laugh and forget the fact that Dad had demoted me from fisherman's helper to air mattress filler.
The next day, Dad walked with me down to the tide pools. It was Christmas Eve, and I was longing for the magic. The tree he had set up was on our picnic table, a rather thirsty-looking artificial tree with built-in ornaments. It wasn’t anything like last year’s thrillingly tall, lush pine that was bauble-rich and glittered with twinkling lights.
But my father, who was an artist as well as a rocket engineer, knew how to make all kinds of magic. And he made a magic moment that became as unforgettable as the New Jersey tree. He took me browsing the fantastic creatures in the pools. Then he reached down into one pool and summoned me. He told me to hold out my hands, and this is what happened.
CHRISTMAS WEEK IN SAN FELIPE
Up my nose, between my teeth, tiny bullets
of sand flew thick and fast. I lay down
lost in wild howling on a dirt road
in Baja California. A dim dream,
my parents shouting as I was tucked
under the sky’s fierce blanket.
As quickly as it arose, the storm died.
I ran back to our car, oasis in blinding dunes.
Our voices swooped over the expanse like gulls.
Unrelenting sand glittered like a snowfield.
Christmas week in San Felipe.
Why did you wander away? -- they said.
I shot back -- Why did you bring us
to a vacation on the moon?
In the front seat, my parents' disapproving silence.
My younger brother and I
stared out windows rolled up
against poverty and dust. Windowless
houses, children without clothes. A desolate
Mexican town and beyond, the beach --
aquamarine water ringed by rock spires.
Burning sun and sand
from horizon to horizon.
We tumbled out and filled the void
with a fight. My father’s voice boomed,
a train freighted with spit consonants
that hurtled at my mother as she sat
blowing up air mattresses.
My brother scampered away. Behind a dune,
Dad's rasping breath and rhythmic cursing
as he pounded tent pegs.
His tent, his family: enemies.
My brother rolled in, a small wave bearing shells,
only to be brushed aside, flotsam.
My father saw me and exploded
into blue-word jazz. Control those kids --
he ordered my mother, his hammer.
Obedient, she fell -- Fill this pail.
The ritual smacked so hard I saw
my family’s outline -- them.
I stood at the surf, tears mingling
with the wind’s gritty lace.
A week of sand stuck to sweaty skin,
crunched between teeth, rubbing me red.
A torture I learned to shape
into wet mounds, sand forts, sand doll houses.
A week amid the dunes
learning to imitate sand -- answering
threat by being limp and malleable
or wild and grating.
Fishing rod propped in a spike,
my father drank tequila and sang
Louis Armstrong songs on New Year's Eve,
capering in the surf. Alarms in me
squealed shrill as the fishing line
that raced unnoticed through his reel.
Giggling, he fell asleep on the sand.
In the morning we walked down the beach,
peering into tidepools. He reached down
and scooped up a dark blob,
handed me a tiny, squirming octopus.
The water baby slithered in my hand -- velvet-wet
exchange of softness in this hard expanse.
A gift fished out of murky depths,
and released to float
in the years of silence between us.
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The Renaissance Club
by Rachel Dacus
Time Travel Romance
January 23, 2018
Would you give up everything, even the time in which you live, to be with your soul mate?
May Gold, college adjunct, often dreams about the subject of her master’s thesis - Gianlorenzo Bernini. In her fantasies she’s in his arms, the wildly adored partner of the man who invented the Baroque.
But in reality, May has just landed in Rome with her teaching colleagues and older boyfriend. She yearns to unleash her passion and creative spirit, and when the floor under the gilded dome of St Peter’s basilica rocks under her feet, she gets her chance. Walking through the veil that appears, she finds herself in the year 1624, staring straight into Bernini’s eyes. Their immediate and powerful attraction grows throughout May’s tour of Italy. And as she continues to meet her ethereal partner, even for brief snatches of time, her creativity and confidence blossom. All the doorways to happiness seem blocked for May-all except the shimmering doorway to Bernini’s world.
May has to choose: stay in her safe but stagnant existence, or take a risk. Will May’s adventure in time ruin her life or lead to a magical new one?
About the Author:
Rachel Dacus is the daughter of a bipolar rocket engineer who blew up a number of missiles during the race-to-space 1950’s. He was also an accomplished painter. Rachel studied at UC Berkeley and has remained in the San Francisco area. Her most recent book, Gods of Water and Air, combines poetry, prose, and a short play on the afterlife of dogs. Other poetry books are Earth Lessons and Femme au Chapeau.
Her interest in Italy was ignited by a course and tour on the Italian Renaissance. She’s been hooked on Italy ever since. Her essay “Venice and the Passion to Nurture” was anthologized in Italy, A Love Story: Women Write About the Italian Experience. When not writing, she raises funds for nonprofit causes and takes walks with her Silky Terrier. She blogs at Rocket Kid Writing.
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