Mary Novaria

A week before the Woolsey Fire began, I hiked with my cousin Kristen in Topanga State Park. A doe and her fawn greeted us in the parking lot, as though someone had arranged it that way for a Hollywood shoot. The afternoon was warm and clear, offering sweeping views of the ocean and other peaks beyond the Santa Monica Mountains. As our elevation increased, we talked about the terrain — the scrubby chaparral (Was that sage we smelled?) and the parched grey-brown meadows below. “Was it ever green?” Kristen asked. Our landscape is intriguing for someone who lives in Alaska and still is for me, six years removed from the Midwest. “Yes,” I said, “after last spring’s rain. I can’t remember exactly when that was.” “Everything’s so dry.” I checked the humidity on my iPhone's Weather Channel app. Twenty-five percent. “Yeah, it’s a real tinder box,” I sighed, the reality of living in this region of Southern California. Little did we know the comm...

KCTV5.com A local news station back in Kansas City featured my friend Mary in a story recently because of a dispute she has with the city over a couple of items on her porch. Turns out her small recycling bin and milk delivery cooler offended the aesthetic sensibilities of the neighbor who ratted her out. Yes, the Missouri-based Shatto Milk Company actually does deliver and some homes still have front porches. My friend has lived in this one for 56 years. The city threatened Mary with fines of $100 a day and even incarceration for the violations. I’d like to think Kansas City wouldn’t put an 80-year-old woman behind bars for petty code violations and I’m quite sure there are more serious and urgent issues facing the city.   But my idea of appropriate law enforcement activity is not necessarily in line with today’s reality. (I’m looking at you, ICE.) I wish my friend well; maybe we can have a chat on her porch sometime when I’m in town. Her plight got me thinki...

I reach for the bananas in the grocery store and feel an unexpected pang of sadness. Out of the blue, I miss my mother.   Over years of her decline, I chauffeured her on errands and sighed deeply when she admitted she’d meant to make a list, but…   I knew what would be on the list—muffins, butter pecan ice cream and bananas—but I wanted her to write it all down. Addled by dementia, not only did she forget to make shopping lists, she often couldn’t remember how to use her cell phone or turn on the TV. I knew it wasn’t her fault. Even so, there were times when my patience wore thin. If only she could jot down a few grocery items on a piece of scrap paper or the back of an envelope, I could take it as a sign that she still had some faculties. Twenty months after her death, here I am frozen in momentary grief in front of the banana stand. We didn’t agree on bananas. I preferred them firm and still tinged with green, she agreed with Chiquita Banana’s recommendati...

Melrose Place With our upstairs neighbors away, we’ve been enjoying relative peace and quiet. There are still the usual city noises, of course—motorcycles, screeching tires and sirens, mostly; and the occasional amped up banter of bar patrons staggering home in the wee hours. We miss the vacationing folks upstairs like you miss a toothache. Oh, they’re pleasant enough when we meet in the courtyard or at the recycling bin, and they have a sweet three-year-old who’s advanced enough to have real conversations—although she’s never had candy, which presented a trick-or-treat dilemma last Halloween. Trouble is, they have no idea how much noise they make. Or, maybe they do and they just don’t care. Personally, I’m giving them the benefit of the doubt and calling them clueless. My better half has dubbed them the Klompuses, in a twisted nod to their constant clomping around. (Also, an homage to Jack Klompus, a Seinfeld character and resident of Del Boca Vista. But I digress.) ...