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Enter the Santa Ana Winds

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As Predicted in Yesterday’s Blog Post

There are several ways that Mother Nature punishes Southern California for its (otherwise) mild climate:

  • Earthquakes, such as the giant temblors that hit the San Fernando Valley in 1971 and 1994
  • Wildfires
  • The Santa Ana Winds (sometimes called the Devil Winds)

The Santa Ana Winds and the wildfires are closely connected. In January 2025, the Pacific Palisades and Eaton fires were aided and abetted by dry wind gusts that reached up to 100 miles per hour (161 km per hour). I strongly suspect that earthquakes have a role to play in this devil’s brew of calamities, but I am at this point not sure exactly how.

According to Wikipedia, the Santa Ana Winds are what are called katabatic winds:

A katabatic wind (named from Ancient Greek κατάβασις (katabásis) ‘descent’) is a downslope wind caused by the flow of an elevated, high-density air mass into a lower-density air mass below. The spelling catabatic is also used. Since air density is strongly dependent on temperature, the high-density air mass is usually cooler, and the katabatic winds are relatively cool or cold.

In yesterday’s blog post, I stated that dry weather and gusty winds were predicted for today. The prediction was accurate. I sat around for much of the day sneezing and blowing my nose. Hopefully, the dry winds from the northeast will die down and I will be able to breathe normally.

The Stage to Lordsburg

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Scene from John Ford’s Stagecoach (1939)

This morning. I watched John Ford’s Stagecoach for the nth time. It is a film I love, partly because it was the director’s first great Western and the film that made John Wayne a star. (Of course, Ford had been making Westerns since 1917, when he filmed Straight Shooting with Harry Carey, Senior.)

I particularly love the scenes at the beginning, when the full stagecoach is making its way with a cavalry escort to Apache Wells. The scenes were shot in Arizona’s Monument Valley, which Ford made famous with his films. Every one of the characters on the stagecoach is interesting and has his or her say, from John Wayne to Thomas Mitchell, John Carradine, George Bancroft, Berton Churchill, Andy Devine, to Claire Trevor and the lovely Louise Platt.

When the stagecoach is attacked by Apaches as it nears Lordsburg, the Indians are real Indians—mostly Navajos.

In the years to come, Ford made many more great westerns, films like My Darling Clementine (1946), Fort Apache and Three Godfathers (1948), She Wore a Yellow Ribbon (1949), Wagon Master and Rio Grande (1950), The Searchers (1956), Sergeant Rutledge (1960), Two Rode Together (1961), and The Man Who Shot Liberty Valance (1962).

John Ford received more best director Oscars than any one else, yet none of them were for a Western. One of those Westerns, The Searchers, is considered by many (including myself) to be the greatest film ever made. (Will I be watching the Oscars on March 15? Nope!)

I will continue watching John Ford’s Westerns again and again, and they will continue to amaze me.

Back from the Dead?

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Preacher Aimee Semple McPherson (1890-1944)

Many’s the time I drove past the Angelus Temple on Glendale Boulevard and wondered about its founder, the late Aimee Semple McPherson. She regularly packed the five thousand seats of the temple with her fiery preaching. Then, suddenly, in 1926, she was reported missing after swimming in the Pacific at Venice Beach. Feared drowned, she was reported quite alive in Douglas, Arizona a month later under highly suspicious circumstances.

You can read the story of her re-emergence in this article from Arizona Highways magazine.

Whatever the reason for her disappearing act, she is one of the reasons that Southern California got such a squirrely reputation in the 1920s. That and Nathanael West’s The Day of the Locust and Evelyn Waugh’s The Loved One. I always wanted to read a biography of Aimee, but never got around to it. Maybe next Thursday, when I go to the Central Library for one of my Mindful Meditation sessions. (Wait! Does that make me sound like a squirrely Southern Californian?)

McPherson’s Angelus Temple in Echo Park

The Angelus Temple built for McPherson’s International Church of the Foursquare Gospel is situated just north of Echo Park Lake, which was the shooting location for a number of Laurel & Hardy two-reelers, most notably “Men O’War” (1929).

Within a few hundred feet is my favorite French restaurant in Los Angeles: Taix, pronounced “Tex.” It was founded in 1927, during Aimee’s “second act,” and is due to close forever on March 29 of this year.

Daffodils: Then and Now

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Daffodils at Descanso Gardens on February 8

Two weeks ago, Martine and I visited Descanso Gardens in La Cañada-Flintridge. In full bloom were the camellias and the daffodils. The latter were in the Lilac Garden, which is still some weeks from coming into bloom.

This evening, I just finished reading an exceptional book which took the journals that Dorothy Wordsworth wrote when she lived with her poet brother William at Grasmere and interspersed them with William’s poems, The book, published by Penguin, is called Home at Grasmere: Extracts from the Journal of Dorothy Wordsworth and from the Poems of William Wordsworth. For instance, on April 15, 1802, Dorothy wrote:

When we were in the woods beyond Gowbarrow Park we saw a few daffodils close to the water-side. We fancied that the sea had floated the seeds ashore, and that the little colony had so sprung up. But as we went along there were more and yet more; and at last, under the boughs of the trees, we saw that there was a long belt of them along the shore, about the breadth of a country turnpike road. I never saw daffodils so beautiful. They grew among the mossy stones about and above them; some rested their heads upon these stones, as on a pillow, for weariness; and the rest tossed and reeled and danced, and seemed as if they verily laughed with the wind, that blew upon them over the lake; they looked so gay, ever glancing, ever changing. This wind blew directly over the lake to them. There was here and there a little knot, and a few stragglers higher up; but they were so few as not to disturb the simplicity, unity, and life of that one busy highway.

And here is the poem William wrote based on that walk he took with his sister:

The Daffodils

I wandered lonely as a cloud
That floats on high o’er vales and hills,
When all at once I saw a crowd,
A host, of golden daffodils;
Beside the lake, beneath the trees,
Fluttering and dancing in the breeze.

Continuous as the stars that shine
And twinkle on the milky way,
They stretched in never-ending line
Along the margin of a bay:
Ten thousand saw I at a glance,
Tossing their heads in sprightly dance.

The waves beside them danced; but they
Out-did the sparkling waves in glee:
A poet could not but be gay,
In such a jocund company:
I gazed—and gazed—but little thought
What wealth the show to me had brought:

For oft, when on my couch I lie
In vacant or in pensive mood,
They flash upon that inward eye
Which is the bliss of solitude;
And then my heart with pleasure fills,
And dances with the daffodils.

Mostly Botanical

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Strange Cacti at L. A. Arboretum

Southern California owes a debt of gratitude to some of its past robber barons who have left some beautiful monuments behind them. I am thinking of Henry Huntington (Huntington Gardens), E. J. “Lucky” Baldwin (L. A. Arboretum), and Manchester Boddy (Descanso Gardens).

People usually come to Los Angeles to see Hollywood (a sad slum), the beaches (polluted), or Disneyland (outrageously expensive), but little do they think that the area’s botanical gardens are probably the most satisfying sights to be seen. While Martine and I could easily spend four hours tromping around the Arboretum, I could not imagine spending comparable time at any of the signature sights—except maybe Disneyland, if you are carrying an ample supply of gold bullion.

And only at the botanical gardens will you feel a sense of peace, surrounded by beauty and fresh air.

Trees at the Arboretum

Even if you don’t live in California, I urge you to check out the botanical gardens in your area. They are deserving of your support. And they are a great place to go with your family: Even the children I saw at the Arboretum appeared to be interested, even engaged.

Rain in the Offing

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Statue of a Frog at the LA Arboretum

This being Valentine’s Day and facing a prediction of several days of rain, I took Martine to the Los Angeles Arboretum in Arcadia. Our last visit there was in 2017. As I looked at the many turtles basking on the shore of Baldwin Lake and the statue of a frog in the Meadowbrook section of the park, the thought of rain was not far from my thoughts. To my mind, turtles and frogs were symbols of wet weather to come.

A less mythical harbinger of rain were the fluffy stratus clouds I noticed as I looked up. To me, that meant that I should curl up with a good book and enjoy the storm, which the local weathermen are already referring to as an “atmospheric river.”

Stratus Clouds Over the Arboretum

Because I am not so mobile as Martine is, at several points along the trail I picked out a shady bench and finished reading Peter Harris’s excellent edition of Zen Poems. Meanwhile, Martine walked around and explored the many sections of the Arboretum. This way, we both got the most out of our visit.

Rain does not deter me as it used to. Now I see a rainy winter as not only a protection against raging wildfires, but a brush that paints the surrounding hills and mountains green and dots them with lovely wildflowers. Otherwise, Southern California takes on a desertlike tinge of brown and gives us hot summers smelling of burnt dust.

“Leaves of Three …”

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Sign Warning of Poison Oak at Descanso Gardens

I remember the old Boy Scout saying, “Leaves of three, leave them be,” referring to how to recognize Poison Ivy and Poison Oak. As I sat on a bench overlooking the lake at Descanso Gardens, I noticed the sign, which was next to a thicket of highly suspicious plants, presumably poison oak.

It would have been tempting to touch one of the plants, but I have already been troubled by itchy legs attributable to my Type 2 Diabetes. So I just sat there for about half an hour waiting for Martine. She never came that way, so presumably she detoured onto another trail.

Descanso is riddled with trails going in all directions. That is one of the charms of the place, along with the large number of benches fronting scenic viewpoints. We eventually met at the Chinese garden, where I sat reading Zen Poems in a perfect location surrounded by camellias. Then we met yet again by a pond which used to have a dual fish fountain (see image below) years ago that we used to watch.

Fish Fountains at Descanso in 2007

Although the fish fountains are long gone, we still like to think about them. So it goes.

In the Land of Camellias

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Perfect Camellia Blossom at Descanso Gardens

Today was Super Bowl Sunday. Yesterday, I said to Martine, “Let’s go somewhere. Everyone will be watching football, so traffic will be light.” And it was—except for the fact that Caltrans shrank the I-405 from six lanes to three for about six miles.

We had lunch at Martine’s favorite Armenian rotisserie chicken restaurant, Sevan Chicken in Glendale. Then we drove to Descanso Gardens and spent three hours there wandering around.

February is not normally known for flowers, but that doesn’t apply to camellias. According to the garden’s website:

There are more than 3,000 kinds of camellias ranging in color, form, and size. Native to Asia, camellias are hardy and have a long blooming season. The two most common species at Descanso are Camellia sasanqua that bloom in fall/winter and Camellia japonica that bloom in winter/spring.

Martine walked around a lot more than I did, but I found several comfortable benches and read from Zen Poems, a collection edited by Peter Harris, in which I found this apt poem:

Camellia Blossoms

My ancient hut’s a ruin, half-hidden under moss—
Who’d have his carriage pause before my gate?
But my servant boy understands that I’ve beckoned an honoured guest
For he leaves unswept the camellia blossoms that fill the ground.

An interesting sidelight: Unlike most Americans, I am not a coffee drinker. My beverage of choice is tea. Interestingly, tea is made from the leaves of the Camellia sinensis, or Chinese camellia.

Introducing Lord Byron

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British Poet George Gordon, Lord Byron (1788-1824)

In that wonderful peak into the lives of two of England’s greatest poets we are indebted to Edward John Trelawny’s Records of Shelley, Byron, and the Author for eyewitness accounts. Although Trelawny was not altogether truthful at times, what would we give to have similar accounts of Shakespeare, Montaigne, and Erasmus, however imperfect?

I forgot that great actors when off the stage are dull dogs; and that even the mighty Prospero, without his book and magic mantle, was but an ordinary mortal. At this juncture Shelley joined us; he never laid aside his book and magic mantle; he waved his wand, and Byron, after a faint show of defiance, stood mute; his quick perception of the truth of Shelley’s comments on his poem transfixed him, and Shelley’s earnestness and just criticism held him captive.

I was, however, struck with Byron’s mental vivacity and wonderful memory; he defended himself with a variety of illustrations, precedents, and apt quotations from modern authorities, disputing Shelley’s propositions, not by denying their truth as a whole, but in parts, and the subtle questions he put would have puzzled a less acute reasoner than the one he had to contend with. During this discussion I scanned the Pilgrim [Byron] closely.

In external appearance Byron realised that ideal standard with which imagination adorns genius. He was in the prime of life, thirty-four; of middle height, five feet eight and a half inches; regular features, without a stain or furrow on his pallid skin, his shoulders broad, chest open, body and limbs finely proportioned. His small highly-finished head and curly hair had an airy and graceful appearance from the massiveness and length of his throat: you saw his genius in his eyes and lips. In short, Nature could do little more than she had done for him, both in outward form and in the inward spirit she had given to animate it. But all these rare gifts to his jaundiced imagination only served to make his one personal defeat (lameness) the more apparent, as a flaw is magnified in a diamond, when polished; and he brooded over that blemish as sensitive minds will brood until they magnify a wart into a wen.

His lameness certainly helped to make him sceptical, cynical, and savage. There was no peculiarity in his dress, it was adapted to the climate: a tartan jacket braided—he said it was the Gordon pattern, and that his mother was of that race. A blue velvet cap with a gold band, and very loose nankeen trousers, strapped down so as to cover his feet; his throat was not bare, as represented in drawings.

Pong

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Sea Lions at Chace Park

It was a hot day, so I decided to take a book and lunch with me to Chace Park. When I arrived there, I was assailed by the pong of scores of sea lions resting on the docks of the Marina. It was decidedly a fishy aroma, and it was noisy with their incessant barking, so I cut my visit short.

As usual, I wondered: Were these seals or sea lions? A quick check of the Internet revealed that they were in fact sea lions. They hung out on the piers in large noisy groups, and they appeared to have small ears.

The park was also crowded with the usual suspects: arrogant crows, watchful sea gulls, and spindly squirrels. Other suspects included a large contingent of the homeless with loud radios. It was exactly conducive for reading. I read a couple of chapters of G. K. Chesterton’s Appreciations and Criticisms of the Works of Charles Dickens and made my way to my parked car to return home.

It was approximately 80° Fahrenheit (27° Celsius) at Chace Park; but the whole vibe was different from the summer, when the sea lions and homeless were less in evidence.