Christmas, and a birthday

My son and his family being off to Santa Fe for the holiday to celebrate Fred and Jen's 10th anniversary, I spent Christmas Eve and Christmas Day with my friend Dorothy in Santa Cruz, at the home of Dorothy's ex-husband's third wife, Greta (and no, I'm not going to elaborate on this), along with Greta's daughter, Alison, Dorothy's son and d-in-law and granddaughters, and a couple of other folks related distantly and not-so. And although I had no family there, myself, I couldn't have felt more at home nor had a nicer time. Weather was cold and unsettled, shifting from rain to bright sun and back again, but inside the house it was warm and cozy, with lots of good food and conversation. Christmas Eve dinner was salmon; Christmas Day, we had a pork tenderloin. Unfortunately, I forgot to bring along my camera on Christmas Eve, but here's Christmas . . .

Pork tenderloin, with fennel and fuyu persimmons

The really beautiful dinner table

Just before we sat down to dinner, we lit the menorah for the fifth night of Hanukkah . . .


Today, December 30, would have been my son John's 45th birthday. No way to know what he would have been like had he lived, but I'm betting by now his hair would be gray, just like his father's, grandfather's and uncle's was at that age. Happy birthday, son; you're always in my heart.

Stormy Sunday

First real winter weather came in this morning; not a hard rain, but kept up all day, and cold, much colder than it's been. A good day to stay inside, which is exactly what I did, bundled up in two sweaters, tights and wooly sox to stay warm while I read the paper. All day long. It was a treat I don't usually allow myself, and it felt just fine.

I did venture out this evening, though, to a gathering instigated by the Obama campaign folks and organized by a woman here in Davis. About 20 or so of us met at her home in North Davis to discuss how we want to help the President-Elect both now and after January 20. After offering information on who we might know in national and/or local politics and in media (the idea being to compile a source list of influential contacts that may be helpful in moving Obama's agenda forward), we listed the issues we think deserve attention by the new administration. It was a long list, headed by the Iraq war and continuing on through health care, closing Guantanamo, education, the economy, food policy, and national service. There were more, and though all are important, it seemed pretty clear to us that if we can stop spending $10 billion a month in Iraq and get the economic recovery program jump-started, there might just possibly be some money for the rest of the stuff to happen.

It was a smart, involved group; many of them had been quite active in the campaign and a number of them are folks who have been rubbing elbows with local pols for a long time. Despite having lived in Davis for more than 30 years and being active in a couple of city council and ballot issue campaigns, I've never been among the politcos here in town. It's never interested me much to be that "connected." But it's good that some people are, I guess. Anyway, this particular meeting this evening was one of 4,000 taking place all around the country this weekend, a start by Obama to fulfill his commitment to involve us, the citizens, in working for change. It's been a long time since a president asked us to do anything other than shop, so this is both an opportunity and a challenge. Obama is right in saying he can't do it alone. If it's change I want, I need to help make it happen.

Moonshine

After what has felt like weeks and weeks of foggy and overcast days, with only moments of soon-disappearing sunshine, today began clear and stayed clear. All day long. Bright blue sky. Crisp air. And topping it off, the celestial cherry on the cake, an almost-full, almost-Winter Solstice moonrise.

Going green in flames

Coming home from Woodland on Hwy 113 yesterday afternoon, a pale green Prius approached me from behind. "Nice color," I thought, putting the mottled-looking hood down to my less-than-clean rear window. Then the Prius passed me and I saw the real reason for the odd-looking paint. Flames, gold ones, painted on the hood and front fenders.

Prius as hot stock car—Detroit, are you listening?

Bias

My cousin sent me a good piece from the Los Angeles Times on confirmation bias, which you can read here. I've been aware of confirmation bias in myself (one of the perils of living in Davis, where "everybody" is a Democrat). And I've made vows to myself to read opposing (i.e., Republican) opinion and viewpoints, but so far, the only opposition voice I can stomach is David Brooks. Will it be different once He Who Regrettably Is Still President is finally gone and Obama is in the White House? And if so, will it be because my President is a pragmatist who wants diverse opinion or because at last MY guy is in charge and I can be charitable toward those who are no longer running things?

Thanksgiving weekend recap

As promised, photos and notes from Thanksgiving Day, plus the rest of the weekend . . .

The pre-dinner "hike" (a walk, really):
Despite the cloudy, overcast day, lots of other people besides Susan and me thought this was a good idea, but it wasn't anywhere near as crowded as Disneyland, and everyone seemed to be having a lovely day—grandparents, parents, kids, dogs, boyfriends and girlfriends—and though the vistas were limited, it was still a beautiful walk, especially the eucalyptus, with their peeling bark . . .
I turned around at the 2-mile marker, knowing I would have done 4 miles by the time I got back to the car and happy to have made it that distance despite the creaky hip and only a bit of limping . . .
Susan is a much stronger/faster hiker than I, so when I turned around she sprinted on up the trail a bit farther to check out whether the Nike missile site was still there (the missile site being the reason for this paved "trail" (a road, really). She didn't find it, but only because she'd miscalculated our location and the thing was much farther on. Here's Susan; it's astonishing how accomplished she is despite having no hands . . . ;-)

So, back to the car and on to Marilyn's, who is Susan's stepmother. Her live-in helper, CeeCee, and CeeCee's neice, Olla, were joining us for dinner, but first we had wine and a delicious crab mold made by Marilyn. Alas, no photo of the crab mold and its accompanying Ritz crackers, but here are CeeCee, Susan and Olla . . .

and Susan and Marilyn . . .
Time to go to dinner, which, as has become tradition, was at Hs Lordship's, a restaurant on the Berkeley marina.
(N.B.: This is pronounced "His Lordship's" even though there is no "i" in the "Hs"; note also the absence of an apostrophe in "Lordship's." I have no idea what these people were thinking.)

This is a buffet-style place, with just about every style of cuisine you might fancy: freshly made sushi, omelettes, cracked crab, peel-and-eat shrimp (my personal favorite), innumerable salads, plus the traditional roast turkey, roast beef and ham and the not-so-traditional catfish and shrimp in a tomato-y sauce (yummy), and of course mashed potatoes, sweet potatoes, mixed steam veg, stuffing, gravy . . . and then there's dessert, again ranging from the traditional pie, cake, bread pudding, flan, to the odd (individually packaged Rice Krispy Treats—a perennial kid favorite). But the food's decent, and there's certainly plenty of it. We had a table next to a window facing out across the bay toward the City, where we could watch the light change on the water. The clouds didn't obscure any of the views, and it was a lovely evening.

Looking west, Golden Gate Bridge across the bay

San Francisco, Thanksgiving evening

As for the rest of the weekend, did a couple of bike rides, walked in the Arboretum, and saw the latest James Bond movie, Quantum of Solace, which was predictable, but who cares—it was fun, and you always know that Bond will come out OK in the end. I think I like Daniel Craig's Bond best of all the ones who've played the role; he's got a less-than-perfect face, which I find interesting. Two surprises from this one, first, none of the usual-issue "gadgets" that ordinarily are in evidence, and (best for me) some of it filmed in Siena, in the piazza. A treat to see it—it was one of my favorite cities when we did the bike tour in 2006. Ciao!

Thanks, giving of

A good Thanksgiving Day, with much to be thankful for. Pictures and tales of my day will appear tomorrow, as I'm too sleepy to write or fiddle with pix tonight. So, taking the easy way out, I give you Gail Collins, in today's New York Times. Count your blessings, as we have many.

A day in the hills

Dorothy and I drove to Apple Hill this past Tuesday, Veterans' Day. In years past, she and a few othr friends who had that day off did an annual bike ride in those hills. Time has taken some of the friends, and Dorothy doesn't ride much these days, so we drive up, wander through the scenery, eat apple crisp and finally buy some apples before heading back down the hill.

We stayed off the main road for quite a while, so there was little traffic, and we could just putt-putt along and look at the lovely trees.



The day was overcast, with once or twice a hint that it might rain (though it never did). But it was warm, and the leaves were turning yellow and gold, the apple crisp (a huge serving) was delicious, and I found some Braeburn apples at a bargain price.


Ended the day with split pea soup, Waldorf salad and corn muffins at Dorothy's, with apple pie for dessert.

Confession

It's happened. I'm glued to the television. From being a person who watched TV rarely (a baseball game, maybe, if it happend to be on broadcast TV, and sometimes the Nightly News on PBS), I'm now an MSNBC groupie—Keith Olberman, Chris Matthews, Rachel Maddow—plus a daily dose of Jon Stewart and Stephen Colbert. And Jim Lehrer is still at the top of the list.

I got cable to watch baseball and in this election year I figured it would be fun to have some of the all-news, all-the-time channels. Well, baseball is over, but the election and its aftermath are keeping me tuned in, turned on, and dropped onto the couch. I expect it won't let up much until after January 20. Good thing it's getting to be less-favorable cycling weather.

Yes we can

Oh, yes . . . we can!

President-elect Barack Obama
Vice President-elect Joe Biden
November 4, 2008

The cookie vote

This e-mail came this morning from my cousin Joe, a self-described "born again Democrat" who lives in Torrance, in Southern California. On this eve of what is, beyond question and for so many, many reasons, the most significant election of my life, it's a good note on which to head into tomorrow.

"The good old Torrance Bakery has been taking a cookie poll (instead of a straw poll, a much more accurate poll because people prefer cookies to straw 10 to 1) and at last count Senator Obama is leading Senator McCain 5732 to 5213. Very encouraging for Senator Obama given that Torrance tends to Republican. I know that the Obama/Biden camp is following this poll very closely."

Live your values. Love your country. Vote.

D-Day minus one

Went up to Dem HQ yesterday morning around 11, figuring I'd spend an hour or two phoning voters, then go do some grocery shopping, come home, make some soup, finish reading the Sunday papers, maybe even get some real work done on transcribing those interview tapes that are sitting there. Some seven hours later, I finally got home. No groceries bought, no soup made, no tapes transcribed, but a whole lot of calls made to voters in Kenosha, Wisconsin, and pages and pages of what we callers learned entered into the Wisconsin Democratic Party's voter info database.

The office was jammed with volunteers, people at phones in various nooks and crannies, all with their lists, all asking, "Have you voted yet? Are you going to vote? May I ask if you're supporting Sen. Obama? Do you know where your polling place is? Do you need a ride to the polls?" When I went outside to take a break, I discovered there were callers out there, too, sitting on the curb, or on a folding chair, cell phone in one hand, the list in the other.

Most of the numbers called don't reach a live person, but we reach some. I talked to about 10 people, and was lucky—they were all voting for Barack, and quite a few said they, themselves, were volunteers for the campaign, along with their husbands, kids, maybe even their pets.

I've mentioned this before, I think, but for me, the best thing about doing this calling and volunteering is the connection I feel with all those other people, both here where I live and all across the country, who care as much as I do about our country, feel dismay at how terribly we've been governed these past eight years, and who are working so hard, putting in so many hours, to change our direction. I've talked to people in North Carolina, in Florida, in Colorado, in Michigan, in Washington, in Wisconsin, and worked alongside old friends (and now some new ones) here in Davis. There is strength—and reassurance—in numbers. One more day.

Rainy Saturday

It's rained most of the day and into the evening, at times coming down hard for several minutes at a time. It was a good day to do nothing at all, and that's pretty much what I did. Nothing "productive," that is, unless you count as productive the thoroughly enjoyable two-plus hour chinwag Susan, Alison and I had this morning at Crepeville, sitting at a back table eating scrambled eggs, drinking tea and coffee, and talking politics. We never seem to run out of fodder on that topic, each of us immersed, saturated, obsessed, and anxious.

For an hour or so this evening, I watched MSNBC's Chris Matthews and Keith Olberman's recapitulations of this long, long, campaign season and once again found myself becoming emotional watching clips of Barack Obama's steady progress toward Nov. 4. There are so many of us who want this man as our president so deeply, so desperately. I've already cast my ballot, so now I wait, along with everyone else, for Tuesday.

Possessed

Election Day is now just four days away. And not a moment too soon. Unless, of course, it is too soon, and Barack Obama needs still more time to convince the majority of the American people that he's their best, really their only, hope to start turning this oil-tanker ship of state in another direction. There isn't any more time left, though; and if people haven't gotten the message, his message, by now, I don't think they will. I'm trying to remain positive and hopeful, trying not to worry, not to think what it would mean if he loses. But it's almost impossible. No matter what the polls say, or the talking TV heads, or the New York Times, the Washington Post, hell, the Davis Enterprise—I've been around the political campaign/election day block a few times, myself (most of us over the age of 40 have been similarly), and I know all too well that Charlie Brown-Lucy-and-the-football syndrome—every time, Lucy convinces Charlie Brown that this time, she'll keep the football right where he can kick it, and every time, just as he swings his foot forward, she snatches it away and he falls flat. So, I worry, read the paper, listen to NPR, worry, talk to my friends, fret, watch Jon Stewart, worry some more.

It's the voting that will determine the outcome, of course. All of our votes, whether cast by mail, or in an early-voting polling place, or on Tuesday. Barack Obama has done all he can, and he'll continue to campaign right up until the last possible minute. But, come Tuesday, when he enters the voting booth and marks his ballot, he, like all the rest of us, gets one vote. Just one. It gets counted along with all the rest of the one votes, and, God willing, there will be enough ballots marked with "Obama/Biden" to push him over the top. But, until that's a certainty, I'll worry.

********

Postscript: Tony Hillerman died this past Sunday. His mystery novels introduced me to the Navajo people and their culture; his Navajo Tribal Police officers, Lt. Joe Leaphorn and Sgt. Jim Chee, were as interesting as the plots of the stories, themselves, and they grew as people with each succeeding title. I don't recall exactly when I read my first Hillerman, but it must have been in the late 1980s, and by the time my friend Robin and I took our epic three-week car camping trip to the Four Corners region in fall 1991, I was eager to see the territory and its people that Hillerman's stories had described. When, sitting in a little cafe in Tuba City, eating a Navajo taco, a Navajo Tribal Police vehicle pulled up outside and two uniformed officers came in, I was beside myself with glee. So thank you, Tony Hillerman; I'll miss you.

Winter ball

The fifth game of the World Series is currently under way in Philadelphia. It's 40 degrees and dropping, the wind is blowing about 20 mph, and oh yes, it's now started to rain.

This is the World Series, people. It's the culmination of 160 regular-season games played IN THE SUMMERTIME. Baseball is a summer sport. That's "summer," as in warm days and nights (OK not necessarily in San Francisco, but the ballpark is so lovely who cares if it's a bit chilly?). Pitchers should not be required to pitch in pouring rain. Batters should not have to try to hit that slider when it's wet. And the infielders and outfielders shouldn't be playing in all that water. And the fans in the stands are heroic; at least the players are reaping monetary reward for their slogging, whereas the fans have paid dearly for the privilege of getting wetter and wetter. And think of the umpires, and the base coaches! And the hotdog vendors in the stands! Is anybody having any fun? 

I don't know what's to be done about this dopey situation, but somebody should figure something out. Baseball played in the waning days of October just doesn't make for good baseball. Harrumph.

Street scene

It hasn't been cold enough to make it feel like fall is really here (and I'm hoping the warm days last at least through tomorrow, when I'm doing a 60-mile bike ride). Nevertheless, the trees in my neighborhood are beginning to turn color—not dramatically yet, and they certainly never do anything resembling the blaze of glory back East, or even in Boise, but still, they're changing. I took a few pictures today around noon; you can see for yourself . . .

This is the hackberry in front of the house . . .


And this is the little Japanese maple (at least I think that's what it is) in the front yard . . .

Out on the deck, in the back of the house, you can see the crape myrtle through the railing . . .

And here's the lovely wind chime gong Fred and Jen gave me for Christmas a few years ago . . .

Warm days, blue skies, clear nights. Is this Indian summer?

Degrees of separation

Just back from the annual UC Davis Quarter Century Club dinner, which was, as usual, a lovely and fun event. Lots of old friends to reconnect with, including Teri Bachman, for many years my editor and mentor at UC Davis Magazine and a new initiate this year to the Quarter Century Club; my former boss, Jan Conroy; and the rest of the new 25- (and 50!) year initiates.

After dinner (and many glasses of quite fine wine), I found myself in conversation with Warren Roberts, the superintendent of the UC Davis Arboretum. I've known Warren for years, know something of his family's history in this part of the world (I think they arrived about the same time Father Serra did), and we've had some lighthearted exchanges now and again. But tonight I discovered that he and I lived in Burlingame in the '50s, both attended Burlingame High School, and both were in the band. Prof. Brose was the band director; Warren played the French horn; I was a second (or possibly third) clarinet. We managed to summon up the BHS alma mater ("On our city's western foothills, reared against the sky . . .") (This is a highly fanciful concept, by the way; while the city, itself, does nudge against the western hills, the high school itself is conspicuously planted in the flats, not that far from San Francisco Bay), and recalled the not-so-lovely band uniforms we wore to the football games.

My family moved away from Burlingame following my freshman year at BHS, so my memories of that place end when I was 14. Funny now to realize that Warren, this grown up, mature, funny, intelligent, accomplished man is someone whom I once sat near in third-period (or was it first-period?) band. I'm tempted to say I wish I'd known him then, but maybe not; maybe it's more fun (and more magical) to learn our shared history after an evening of celebrating our communal history. 

Cheap chicken

I'm working on being thrifty, partly because of the general economic malaise but mostly out of sheer necessity (my only freelance project is a story for the magazine, which won't produce any $$ until January, and then only if I manage to get it written and submitted). So Monday for dinner I roasted a 4-lb chicken, along with some potatoes and carrots and turnips. I must say, it was delicious, and I've been eating the leftovers in various ways—just reheated, in a sandwich for lunch, and tonight I made rice and bean burritos with a bit of chicken added in. I was surprised to realize that I'd never roasted a chicken before. Turkey, yes, but not chicken. I intend to see just how many meals I can get out of it; I even froze the bones and will see if they'll manage to work into soup at some point. Should have followed Susan's example and taken a picture of it to post here, but at the time I didn't even think of it. But it looked very presentable.

Boise travelogue

Arrived in Boise yesterday afternoon to be here for my Aunt Reba's memorial service, which is this afternoon at 4. Dinner at my cousin Susan's, with just about all of the rest of her side of the family: Susan's husband, Bill; her brother, Fred (the Texas prison warden, now retired) and his wife, Vicky; Susan and Bill's kids (Josh, Stacy, and Andrew) and Stacy's kids (Noah, Nicholas, and brand-new baby Alexis); the only ones not present was Stacy's husband, Fred (yep, another Fred), who was at school, and Josh's wife, Rachel, who was home vacuuming, mostly, I think, because I am staying with them while I'm here. Hope to have a family photo to post before I leave.

I just went out for a walk in Josh and Rachel's neighborhood. It's cold today, certainly colder than it's been in Davis (though not as cold as it was here a week or so ago, when it snowed, and it'll get a lot colder before the winter's over). I saw one cyclist (mountain bike), one mailman, four in-motion vehicles, and no pedestrians (the mailman was in his mail truck). Also, no campaign signs of any kind or persuasion. Yesterday, though, driving to Susan's from the airport, I saw lots. Most were for candidates I've never heard of (there must be several other offices in contention here in Idaho and Boise) but what I was on the lookout for were signs for presidential candidates. Being as it's Idaho, I expected a lot for McCain, and I did see one. And two for Obama. Yes! Josh says while he expects McCain will carry the state, he reckons Obama will make a much stronger showing than a Democrat would have done in earlier elections. Stay tuned.

P.S. As promised, here are at least some of the Boise clan:

Josh, Susan, Bill, Vicky and Fred, suited up and ready for the Boise State-Hawaii game. (Boise won.)

Look! Up in the sky!

Thanks to the Daily Overlook, I discovered Amazing Space, produced by the Space Telescope Science Institute's Office of Public Outreach. The site has lots of info that's been gathered by the Hubble telescope (which, in August, completed its 100,000th orbit around the Earth), and looks to be targeted to school-age kids. The best bit is called Tonight's Sky, a Flash movie highlighting the October night sky. What's fun about October is the Great Square of Pegasus, which Amazing Space has turned into a baseball diamond, befitting this month of Major League playoffs and the World Series. There are the bases, the pitcher and the catcher, even a manager arguing with an umpire. Check it out.

And here's to my sweet son John, who loved all sports, but especially baseball. I miss you every day, but especially in October. May your memory be a blessing, and may your beloved Baltimore Orioles have a winning season in '09.

John Folsom
Dec. 30, 1963—Oct. 12, 1986

The cookie has crumbled

Mother's Cookies has declared bankruptcy and closed down. I don't follow the cookie industry, and it's been years since I ate one of Mother's pink-and-white circus animals (or any of Mom's other varieties), but I don't think I'll ever purge my brain of the advertising jingle they used years ago:

Mother's
are like no others;
They're the cookies
in the
passionate purple package!
Mammy!

(I could be wrong about that final "Mammy!" being part of the original, but that's what we always added when we sang it.)

R.I.P.
Mom
1914-2008

A Yom Kippur prayer for my country

If we are worth saving,

Give us strength.

If we are worth saving,

Give us patience.

If we are worth saving,

Give us determination.

If we are worth saving,

Give us humility.

If we are worth saving,

Give us insight.

If we are worth saving,

Give us imagination.

If we are worth saving,

Give us fortitude.

If we are worth saving,

Give us creativity.

If we are worth saving,

Give us ingenuity.

If we are worth saving,

Give us tolerance.

If we are worth saving,

Give us cooperation.

If we are worth saving,

Give us leadership.
If we are worth saving,
Give us resolve.

If we are worth saving,

Give us hope.

Amen.

Blast from the past

Lloyd Thaxton

1927-2008

I hadn't thought about Lloyd Thaxton in years—make that decades—then, in today's L.A. Times, I read his obituary. Living in the L.A. area in the '60s, I was a modest fan of Thaxton's "Dance Party," by modest I mean that I watched occasionally and enjoyed it when I did. He was wacky in a smart way, exaggerating the characters he dreamed up in a genuinely funny, yet genuinely decent way. The video clip that's included with the obituary illustrates that far better than I can . . .

What surprised me most was discovering that rather than fading into obscurity after "Dance Party" ended, Thaxton went on to do lots of other creative stuff, including co-producing "Fight Back!" on (I think) CBS. Even more surprising was learning he had a blog. Some nice stuff there, too. I often feel a tinge of regret when I learn of the death of someone who played a role in my early life, even such a minor role as the one played by "Dance Party"; regret that I'd just pretty much forgotten all about that person. In the case of Lloyd Thaxton, it's even stronger; I think he would have been someone worth keeping in mind.

Lloyd Thaxton, singing in the rain

All the news that fits, we print

Succumbing to its "half-off for 26 weeks (and four more weeks if paid by credit card!)", I've reupped my subscription to the New York Times. There's so much good stuff in it every day, and I just don't want to read it off my computer screen. Headlines, yes; but when it comes to an opinion piece, or an in-depth news analysis, or almost anything in the Sunday magazine section,  I want paper, dammit!

So now I get three newspapers, the Times, the Bee, and the Enterprise. The Enterprise is a necessity for anyone living in Davis (once, in a fit of outrage at Jon Li's vitriolic screeds, I cancelled my subscription, then felt like a self-imposed exile from the community until some months later I quietly resubscribed; gotta read the letters to the editor and the wedding news). I just paid for eight more weeks of the Bee, but I'm less and less inclined to continue it (this morning's front-page photo again featured a grieving survivor of some tragedy, this time the bus crash up near Williams; I'm thoroughly weary of the pandering to maudlin sympathy that seems to be the Bee's guiding editorial policy these past few months. But I think local newspapers are vital, so I hate to bring another nail to the coffin party by cancelling). 

I probably won't be able to keep up with the Times, but even if I don't read all of it every day, I feel better having it here in the house, my newsprint security blanket in this chaotic period. But I may have to get a bigger recycling bin.

But what about menudo?

Quote of the day: "All they're selling is food. Carne asada is not a crime."

(Phil Greenwald, attorney for Los Angeles taco truck vendors who successfully fought a law requiring the trucks to move every hour or face $1,000 fines and possible jail time. The law was passed last spring after restaurateurs complained that taco trucks parking on the streets near their businesses were drawing away customers. A judge threw out the law in August.)

Winky-Dink and us

I've been harboring a suspicion this past week or so, and now that I've seen Sarah Palin's performance in the Vice-Presidential debate, those suspicions have been confirmed: There is no Sarah Palin; Tina Fey is Sarah Palin. This ruse will be revealed two days before election day and will be judged to be such a hoot that the McCain-Palin/Fey ticket will win the White House by a landslide.

If you think this idea is completely wacko, take a look:
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=0Y7E235ujJ4

Murder of crows

The clouds this evening made for a nice sunset, so I stepped out on my deck to watch. The color faded quickly, but I stayed out anyway, watching the crows come home from work. There must be as many of them during the other seasons, but they always seem more numerous as fall draws near. My house is surrounded by big trees, and watching the crows cruise in, wheel around and find a spot in one of them is a sight I never tire of. They jostle each other, caw raucously, always reminding me of people meeting up after work at the local pub. They just keep coming and coming; watching over the roof my house, it seems as though there's a crow-generating machine just to the west, cranking them out and sending them sailing over my rooftop. If I ever moved away from Davis, I'd miss a lot of things, but I think I'd miss the crows the most.

Aaarrrgh!

Lost my wallet yesterday. Getting ready to leave the house on yet another errand, couldn't find it. Go downstairs, look in car. No wallet. Call Neil, where I'd been just 30 minutes before. "Is my wallet at your house, by any chance?" Neil looks around in all the places I'd been. "No, it's not here." First intimation that this will not have a happy ending. Next, I call Nugget, where I'd stopped before going to Neil's, to get flowers and an almond croissant for Lisa (it was her birthday). "Did anyone turn in a wallet? It's dark gray, Eagle Creek or some such brand . . ." "No, I'm sorry; if you'll give me your phone number, I'll call you if it does show up." Second intimation . . . Hoping against hope (and even reason), I get back in the car and drive up to Nugget to look in the parking lot, on the off chance (Hah!) the wallet got kicked under something and no one (Hah! Hah!) had seen it. Guess how that went . . .

OK, so now I know I'm in for it, "it" being cancelling my debit/check card, trying to remember what, exactly, was in my wallet, what else do I need to cancel and/or replace (driver's license, library card, UCD retiree ID card, Triple A card, and on and on). Go to bank, cancel debit/check card and order a new one. (Golden 1 staff person: "Do you have your ID with you?" Me: "Um, I lost my wallet. That's why I'm here, remember?")

Back home, call Triple A, order a replacement card. Call my gasoline credit card company to cancel the card in my wallet and order a replacement. (Automated system: "Please enter the number embossed on the card." Me: "Hello?! I don't HAVE the card, you @%?!*&! idiot!" I do finally encounter a human . . .)

Now the real chore: I pay many of my recurring expenses by means of—guess what—my debit card, things like my public radio/TV pledge, my Sierra Club and other organization dues, my monthly contribution to the Obama campaign, my copper.net account . . . I now have to contact each of them and give them my new debit card number. It's a lengthy list. And I can't start calling until I receive the new card, because I don't know the new expiration date. But I begin making the list and finding phone numbers.

About three hours later, the phone rings. It's Neil: "Found it!" Me: "Oh, no! I mean, oh, good!" Neil: "I suppose you've already cancelled your cards." Me: "Uh-huh. Guess I'll still be making all those phone calls . . ."

Oh, well; at least I have the wallet back, and my library and Co-op and retiree ID cards, AND my driver's license, not to mention my "frequent eater" card from Mariachi and "frequent shopper" card from Avid Reader. Those are way more valuable than the $2 I had in there.

Home again . . .

New York, New York

Tonight, the New York Yankees played their last game in Yankee Stadium. I've never been a huge Yankee fan, but I am absolutely a baseball fan. And watching that final game in that—OK, I'll say it—almost hallowed piece of ground, I felt such a love for the game, for its traditions, for that essence that no other sport captures and distills.

I grew up listening to Yankee games. In the '40s and early '50s, there was no Major League baseball in California, and my father always listened to the Game of the Week. I heard the names DiMaggio, Mantle, Maris, Berra; I knew who they were and what good baseball players they were. They were Yankees. Tonight, after the last out—fittingly, the Yankees won, beating the Orioles 7-3—Derek Jeter, surrounded by the rest of his team, took the microphone and paid tribute to the fans, saying what a privilege and an honor it is to wear the Yankee uniform and play for such devoted and loyal fans. When he finished speaking, to the sounds of Sinatra singing "New York, New York," the players circled the field, waving and tipping their hats to the fans, who clapped and cheered and cried.

Next year, the Yankees will play in their brand-new ballpark across the street from the old one. They'll still be the Yankees, still the love-'em-or-hate-'em team, but the Yankee Stadium that for me existed only on radio and television (I never got there in person) will always be the "real" one. And though the Giants are my team, and if they ever again play the Yankees in a World Series, or even an interleague game, I will want passionately for them to win, tonight, the Yankees were my baseball team; more than that, they were baseball.

A new neighbor/Feline dreams

Last night I dreamed about kittens, four of them, that had been born to a cat I lived with. I was taking care of them in their odd circumstances (not worth going into; it was a dream, after all), but despite the slight concern that there were four of them, I was happy to have them.

Today, I returned home about noon from a bike ride to find a moving van in front of my house and a new neighbor moving in. Her name is Lisa, she's a licensed marriage, family and child counselor who works for Sacramento County, and she has two cats, both boys, named C.J. and Jake. I haven't met them yet (they won't arrive until all the moving-in is done), but I'll be glad to welcome them to the neighborhood, as I am equally glad to welcome their "mom."

I think I may be getting closer to getting a cat of my own.

Aunt Reba

My cousin called yesterday from Boise with the news that my aunt Reba had died that morning. She was 91, and pretty much up until her last week was still full of spunk, at least in spirit. She was my father's only sister, the next to the youngest of six, all the rest boys. She was the first to tell you that she had been spoiled by her brothers, then by her wonderful husband, my uncle Beck. But she would also be the first to tell you how grateful she was for all that, and what a good life she had had. She always found a way to have fun, was always smartly dressed and made up, and had a wonderful sense of humor.

I lost track of her and my cousins for many years, only reconnecting about seven or eight years ago. Once I did, I went to Boise to visit, got caught up on her and the rest of that side of the family, and thoroughly enjoyed her company. I'm thankful I got to see her while she was still doing well; in many ways, she hadn't changed a bit from the times we used to visit when I was a kid. She had a good life, and a good death, and I'm sure she would have approved.

Five-finger exercises

I had my first piano lesson today. For 30 minutes I practiced some scales (two hands, please) and sight-read the first few songs in "The Joy of First Year Piano." Now it's practice, practice, practice here at home, hoping that my arthritic fingers are up to the task.

Signspotting

Posters in the window of a bakery/coffeehouse, Yachats, Oregon:

Offerings at Olalla Summer Camp: 

Papermaking with invasive weeks

Stealth and nature awareness games

Forest exercise and kayaking

Announcement of auditions for a play at the local community theater:

"A redblooded all-American boy and his bodacious grandmother reluctantly join forces with an impudent librarian and lead their isolated coastal village into a ruthless scufle with . . . THE GHOUL FROM HELL!"

An invitation to local citizens . . .

Meet our recently appointed Curcuit Court judge, Sheryl Bachart . . .

And lastly, a notice on the door of La Prima Pizza, in Calistoga:

Please note: Restrooms are for use by costumers only.

When I'm 64

As long as I can remember, I've wanted to learn to play the piano. But growing up, we didn't have a piano (it, along with most of our other furniture, was sold when my father's bakery failed and my parents lost our house), and without an instrument to practice on, it hardly made sense to take lessons.

But even at age 64, I still want to learn to play, and on Monday, I'll have my first piano lesson at my teacher's house. Then I'll come home and practice on my new electronic keyboard!


You will notice this keyboard has a full complement of keys, the same number as are on a real piano. When I first inquired about getting a keyboard (a piano was out of the question, both financially and logistically), I discovered that most of them come with a truncated keyboard—55 or so—apparently on the theory that the electronic gizmos will compensate for the lack. But I've always thought that God and Mr. Steinway put 88 keys on a piano for a reason—so what if those top and bottom ones get little attention; they're there when you need them—so I was very glad to find this one at Watermelon Music here in Davis. It, too, has a gazillion possible permutations, which I may never discover all the secrets of, but that's fine; it just takes one button to make it sound like a piano, which is exactly perfect.

Remembering Sept. 11, 2001

Seven years ago today, I woke as usual to NPR's "Morning Edition," and listened with half my brain while getting ready for work. But something was going on, and Bob Edwards' voice was telling me, telling us all, the terrible, horrifying events taking place in Manhattan, in Washington, and in Pennsylvania. I turned on the television and watched in confusion and disbelief as New York seemed to be coming apart before my eyes. And then, because I didn't know what else to do, I went to work.

None of us knew what to do, really, and in the seven years since then, I'm not sure we know any better now. For months after that day, I grieved for the people in the towers, in the Pentagon, and probably most vividly, for those who that day drew the death card and boarded one of those airplanes. How, I wondered, could the men who planned and carried out that nightmare, how could they stand in line with those innocent people, those children, hear the ordinary conversations of ordinary people, and not falter?

Seven years has made the rawness of that day and the following days less sharp, but the physicality of those events still vibrates quietly inside me. And, in one way or another, I imagine it does in every American who bore witness to the loss of our naivite, our collective hubris, our innocence.

Audacity springs eternal

In the nearly one month since I wrote here, both parties have held their conventions, both have nominated their candidates, and Sarah Palin has become the right wing's new best friend. I'm horrified by her, horrified by the possibility that she could actually end up in the White House, appalled and disgusted at the cynicism shown by the McCain people in their cravenness. I've had disturbing dreams since her nomination, wake up feeling a mix of disbelief and dread, something that feels akin to grief.

Some people I know think it's over, that faced with Palin's appeal Obama can't win. But not me. Those feelings of horror, disbelief and dread have galvanized me to do more than just send Obama money. Saturday morning, I worked in the Obama-Biden booth at the farmers' market. Yesterday afternoon, I went to the Democratic headquarters office in Davis, picked up an ironing board, some signs and some voter registration forms, and stood out in front of SaveMart for an hour, asking passsersby if they were registered. I got three takers; the best one being a man of about 35 who told me that this year, he was voting, that always before, it had been "garbage." But not this time; this time, there was hope. And I think so, too.

If you haven't seen this Web site, check it out; reading the words of these women will give you hope, too. We must not be paralyzed.

Small businessmen

Summer morning, South Davis, corner of Cowell Blvd. and Washoe St. Four boys, ages maybe 8 to 11, two signs, a card table. Two of the boys hold the brown cardboard signs over their heads; as I get closer, I can read the hand-lettered words and hear them shouting as they walk toward my car: "Free lemonade!" "Free cookies!" I can't resist. I pull over and roll down the passenger-side window.

"What's the catch?" I ask. "It's free," one of the boys answers. "Free?" "Yes. But you can leave a tip if you want."

They had two flavors of lemonade (raspberry and regular) and chocolate chip cookies arranged on the cloth-covered table. The fresh lemons were a nice touch. And, I was informed by one boy, I could also get a discount card good for discounts at local businesses. All free.

I wanted to hug them. Instead, I accepted a glass of regular lemonade and left them a $2 tip. It may have been the only money they earned, because business didn't look to be too brisk. As I drove away, the boys resumed their sign-waving and shouting, but car after car drove past without a look, and each time the signs would come down, only to rise again as the next vehicle hove into sight. I should have left them a tenner.

Youth movement

This evening, I had dinner in Central Park with 31 young men and women who are on the last legs of a cross-country bicycling journey. Starting in June from Rhode Island, the group has ridden every day, on roads over you-name-it terrain and in the kinds of weather you might expect during the summer months (i.e., hot, humid, hot, dry, hot . . .), staying the night in church social halls, school gymnasiums, even in private homes, packed in like sardines in their sleeping bags. They're having fun, but the purpose of the ride isn't entirely for the fun of it: as their name implies, Bike to Build is raising money for Habitat for Humanity. Many of the riders have volunteered on Habitat projects in their own areas; joining up with this ride was another way they could support that worthy cause.

And they are such fun to be with—bright, exuberant (even after 3,000 miles or so of pushing the pedals), fresh-faced, and young, young, young; the three or four I talked a good deal with are in their early (and I do mean early) 20s (I mentioned that in 1988 I'd done a 1,000 mile ride; Rachel said, "That's the year I was born!" Sigh . . .). They're from all over: Florida, Rhode Island, Illinois, Kansas . . . Tuesday, they'll reach San Francisco, ride across the Golden Gate Bridge and come to the end of their adventure as a group. Some will fly home the next day, others will spend a few days in San Francisco ("What's good to see?" asked one; answer: "What's your pleasure—art? museums? music? food? ethnic communities? Take your pick; the City has it all and more.")

On Sunday, they'll start riding at 7:30 a.m. from the Davis Community Church, and some of us from the Davis Bike Club will ride with them for a while, out to Winters, up to Monticello Dam, maybe farther, maybe not so far. However far we go, it will be a treat and a privilege to join them.

Re-entry

Home after eight days away on a bike tour in Oregon. Spent yesterday just being here, working my way back into the rhythm of the day-to-day. Washed my breakfast dishes; hadn't washed a dish in more than a week. Looked through the accumulated mail; ditto the newspapers (the ones that somehow got delivered even though I'd put a vacation hold on them). Enjoying the peace and solitude after spending eight days with 17 other people; this feeling will soon devolve into feelings of isolation and loneliness, which will soon reverse as my ordinary life reinserts itself.

Glad to have been away . . . glad to be home.

Eye to eye

A juvenile robin (thanks, Pica, for helping me to identify him!) in the grapevine outside my kitchen window this evening, eating the ripe grapes. I got a good look at him with my binoculars, and as I watched, he plucked a grape, held it briefly in his bill, then—gulp!—down it went. It was so wonderful to see him so clearly without disturbing him in the slightest. I don't have a camera with a telephoto lens, so I wasn't able to take a picture, but I did find this one on the Web; it's close, but doesn't show the beautiful markings on the back of "my" fine young fellow . . .


I'm off to Oregon early tomorrow morning to do a week-long bicycle trip. Hope the robin is still around when I get back. There ertainly are plenty of grapes for him to eat.

Local commentary

Bumper sticker spotted this afternoon on a car parked on F Street . . .

Keep Davis Boring

Buzz and Sam

My old friend Buzz married his partner, Sam, yesterday evening in Sacramento. It was a wonderful wedding, full of hilarity, a bit of camp, some tears and lots and lots of joy. The ceremony was officiated by state Sen. Darrell Steinberg, and the guests included Heather Fargo, the current mayor of Sacramento, and many other local Democratic party notables. They were there as friends of the couple—Sam has long been active in Democratic circles, as both a legislative aide and an activist for equal rights for gays and lesbians—and to celebrate what all of us there knew is a huge, huge step out of the dark ages for same-sex couples.

So after Sen. Steinberg said those words so many thought they would not live to hear ("By the power vested in me by the State of California and before these witnesses, I now pronounce you husband and husband!") there was music, and dancing (the newlyweds' first dance was to Etta James' "At Last"), and food and wine and champagne and wedding cake. And at some point in the celebrating, maybe it was when the best men were offering a toast, or when Buzz and Sam were dancing, or maybe just standing together talking, I was struck almost physically with the reality: They are married. This hadn't been play-acting, or pretending and hoping, or even a commitment ceremony—Buzz and Sam are married. It seems at once so logical and natural and so odd and unreal. I try (and so far have failed) to conjure up an analogy, some situation that would evoke in me the same mix of happiness and disbelief. But who cares? It's enough to know that despite the utter improbability of it all, it really is true. Hell is freezing over, and not a moment too soon.

Grandkids' tchotchkelehs

At Long's this afternoon browsing around for some little things to take to my granddaughters tomorrow, I found these: miniature (but working) school supplies—pencil sharpener in the shape of a mouse, scotch tape dispenser, stapler (and staples), tiny pens, a tiny notebook on a ring chain, two caribiners, a retractable eraser, magnetic clip, scissors, folding ruler, and a pack of post-its. And the best part: They were two for $1!

Growing up Mongol

Saw Mongol yesterday, a recounting of the youth of Genghis Kahn. Here's what I learned about the requirements for growing up as a successful Mongolian male: a) ride a horse well; b) love fur hats; c) be ready to fight any one of a random number of enemy clans at any time; and d) choose a good wife (make sure she has strong legs). You should also be prepared to be enslaved, tortured, run long distances, and find someplace to get those fur hats.

The film has plenty of blood—swords slashing, long sharp impaling things impaling, etc., etc.—but it seemed so stylized that it didn't make me cringe or even feel any squeamishness. What the movie does have in great quantity is loads of magnificent scenery, each landscape different than the last, all photographed beautifully. The land is so large, so vast, that the human figures look small and insignificant by contrast. Maybe that feeling of inconsequence in comparison to their surroundings was what made the Mongols so fierce . . . I did laugh, though, at the name of one of Khan's enemy clans, the Merkits. All I could think of was that Animal Planet show, Meerkat Manor.

Jane, Jane, Jane . . .

I've resumed listening to Jane Eyre this week after the camping-trip hiatus. Here's what's happened since my last post . . .

A month after accepting his proposal, Jane and Mr. Rochester hie themselves off to the local parish church early one morning to be wed; Mr. Rochester is in such a hurry that Jane has no time for breakfast. Back at Thornfield, the coach awaits, packed and ready, to whisk the newlyweds off to London and thence to the south of France.

At the church, the parish priest begins the service, the only witnesses the clergy and two strangers who have wandered in. As the priest speaks the words, "If anyone has cause to show this marriage should not take place, let him speak now . . ." one of the strangers steps forward. He can show cause: Mr. Rochester is (gasp!) already married to another! Jane stunned. Mr. Rochester orders the priest to carry on. Priest refuses. Mr. Rochester then orders the group back to Thornfield, where he will, indeed, produce his wife.

Up to the third floor, behind the secret door, there is Grace Pool! Is she the wife? No, not at all; she is the wife's caretaker. There is the wife! Crawling on the floor, snarling like a dog, hurling herself at Mr. Rochester and clawing at him, uttering vile epithets! She is criminally insane. Mr. Rochester married her in Jamaica many years before. For some reason he has not divorced her but keeps her locked in that room, from which she periodically escapes and wreaks havoc before being recaptured.

Shock and horror ensue for Jane. She goes to her room, locks herself in. What shall happen now? Her hopes, her love for Mr. Rochester, his love (she assumed) for her, all a sham. She weeps not; she cannot. Late in the day, she opens the door to find Mr. Rochester seated outside, waiting for her. They descend to the parlor. Mr. Rochester explains his plight, how he is trapped in this unspeakable, untenable marriage, how much he loves Jane, will she come with him to the south of France, live with him, be his love and the light of his life forevermore?

Jane cannot bear it. She loves him, oh yes, she loves him—truly, madly, deeply! But she will not be his mistress! Mr. Rochester pleads, he begs, he rails, he grows angry. Jane will not relent. She must leave Thornfield, leave him and her love for him forever! She returns to her room.

But she does not sleep. She prepares. Very early the next morning, she leaves the house with but 20 shillings and a few meager possessions tied in a small bag. On foot, she crosses a field until she comes to a road where a coach is passing. Yes, the coachman will take her as far as her 20 shillings will allow. She is put down in a tiny village, forgetting her small reticule in the side of the coach. No money, no resources. She wanders a bit. It grows late. She beds down in the heather for the night.

Next morning, she is hungry and weak. She walks some more, begs some bread at a bakery but is turned away because she has nothing to offer except her handkerchief and her gloves as payment. Night comes again and she once again sleeps al fresco. The morning brings no relief. She walks again and comes upon a small church. Believing she may find succor there, she inquires. No, the minister is not in and won't be back for a week or so.

Exhausted, desperate, as night begins to come on again Jane espies a dwelling. There is a light! She approaches and looks in the window. Two young women sit by a fire. She can hear them speaking. She goes to the door and knocks. The housekeeper answers. Jane asks for a bit of food. Housekeeper rebuffs her. Jane perseveres. Asks to speak to the young ladies. Housekeeper continues to bar the door. At last, one of the women appears and takes pity, invites her in.

Jane will not account for herself except to say she cannot say where she has come from. She gives as her name "Jane Elliott," fearing that Mr. Rochester will seek her, find her. She cannot have that happen. The two young women have a brother, Mr. Rivers, who, it transpires, is the minister at the church Jane inquired at. The family takes her in. The young women, Diana and Mary, are soon to leave to become governesses in a large family. Mr. Rivers offers Jane a post as the mistress of a girls' school he is just starting. The position comes with a two-room cottage and an orphan child to help with the scutwork. Jane accepts. Thus begins a new chapter in the life of Jane Eyre.

Will Mr. Rochester find her? Will he free himself from his lunatic wife? Will Jane succumb to his ministrations if he does? Or even if he doesn't? Stay tuned . . .

Gloom

This smoke has been hanging around for more than two weeks, now, and coupled lately with the temperature in the low 100s has made for some miserable conditions. I haven't seen the sun—really seen it—in two weeks, never mind an actual blue sky. What's up there in lieu of the sun is a dull orange disk that nevertheless seems to manage to crank out the big temps and gives everything a sulfurous hue through the smoke.

This is all beginning to feel Biblical.

Camping

Susan wanted to go camping over the 4th of July holiday and invited me along. Destination: Lake Alpine, about 20 miles this side of Ebbets Pass.

Susan and her dogs, Bodie and Reno, picked me up early Thursday morning, and we were off . . .

We were glad we left early, because by the time we got to the lake, many of the campsites were full. But at Silver Valley campground, we lucked out and got the best site in the place—up away from the road, backed by the woods, close enough to the bathroom and the water spigot to be convenient but not annoying. Here's our tent:

Susan has a good-sized ice chest, so we could bring good stuff to eat. Our first night, we had chicken, cooked on the grill, accompanied by some rather strange-tasting Thai noodles from a box. The chicken was great; the noodles get a pass next time. Susan, being the barbecue maven, did the grilling; I helped by being hungry.

Friday morning, Independence Day, all of us went for a hike into the Carson-Iceberg Wilderness. Susan and I hike at vastly different speeds (my usual title for such activities is "The Hippo and The Gazelle Go for A Hike), so she and the dogs went on ahead and I followed along at a much slower pace, owing partly to my gimpy right leg and also to my desire to stop and look at things, maybe even take a picture. Here's some of what I saw on the trail:

Wildflowers . . . the lower photo is of sego lillies. I don't know the name of the others:


Lots of granite. I like being around it . . .

The trail led down to the North Fork of the Stanislaus River. Failing to see a crossing spot that didn't involve possible peril, I decided to stop there are eat half of my sandwich sitting on a rock next to a little eddy, where a tiny fish and some water striders were also hanging out. I tried to get a pictue of the water striders' shadow:

Four water striders row across the pool,
Making shadows of clipped poodles on the rocks below.
A tiny fish waits for food.

Susan caught up with me on her return leg and we hiked down to Duck Lake, where we finished our lunch.

Duck Lake is surrounded by lovely flower-filled meadows. There are cattle there, too, and some of them wear bells. You can hear the bells a long way off, and when you get closer, the effect is somewhat like being a spectator at the Tour de France—lots of jangling. Nice, though. The lake was calm and beautiful, set in amongst the granite.

In honor of the 4th of July, we had an All-American dinner of grilled steak and corn on the cob. And we were tired from the hike and went to bed early. Waking up in the middle of the night, I left the tent and saw so many stars . . . the moon was just past new, so the sky was quite dark, making it even more glittery.

Susan and the dogs took a two-hour hike Saturday morning, but I stayed in camp, reading. I also sketched a good rock at the back of our campsite:

When Susan got back, it was time to pack up and head back down the mountain. We'd had a wonderful time. Even a rock at our campsite was sad to see us go . . .

Summer reading

I'm listening to Jane Eyre on CD that I got from the library. It's one of the several hundred books I missed reading in school, mostly because I didn't get beyond freshman English in college. (Actually, I didn't get beyond freshman anything, as I dropped out the middle of my sophomore year to get married—another sort of education.) Anyway, I'm quite enjoying it and, truthfully, I'm glad I never tried to sit down with the book, as I think I would have been done in by all that purple Victorian prose. Listening to it, though, is wonderful; the reader is excellent. I'm just a bit over halfway through it; Mr. Rochester has proposed to Jane. Could all be happily ever after? I doubt it, as there's still a lot of ground, or rather, CDs, to cover, and I can't imagine the rest being devoted to the two of them settling down in page after page of marital bliss. There's that mysterious Grace Pool to be revealed, and why Jane hasn't yet asked her "master" to confess what that's all about is a mystery in  itself. Methinks there's more drama to come. Much more. 

Help wanted

Best "Help Wanted" ad in today's Davis Enterprise:

"People needed with experience in Caponizing chickens. Must have 2 years experience. Interviews between 8am-5pm all week. Contact Wong Farm."

I wonder what the interview consists of (and what happens to the chickens that "participate").

Smoke gets in your eyes

And in your lungs, which is much worse, healthwise. This morning the air seemed better; not good, but improved. At 6:30 I rode my bike to the athletic club, and at 9:30 to South Davis, and while the air wasn't anywhere close to being clear, it seemed possible that the worst of the smoke pollution was over.

I was wrong. Sitting at my computer here in the living room, all the windows open, about noon I began to smell smoke. Looking outside, the air was thick again, burning my eyes and giving me a headache. So it was back to closing the windows and turning on the air conditioner, and counting myself fortunate that I don't have a job that requires me to be outside in this stuff.

Whether that particular upsurge resulted from a new fire or just a wind shift that blew more our way, I don't know. But it's a bad start to the summer. Very bad.

Building better mousetraps

I have mice, or rats; something, anyway, that has left its calling card that says "A rodent was here." So I went looking for disposal methods.

Somewhere, there's a man whose path to his front door must be a six-lane highway, because there's a mousetrap to suit the preference of even the most fastidious rodent assassin. There are two major brands in the mouse-and-rat trap biz, Victor and d-Con. Both offer a wide line of killing tools, from baits that poison the little critters to traps ranging in sophistication from the classic snap trap ("proof of rodent death" being the major selling point here) to the slightly more upscale glue traps (ditto) and the d-Con "no see-a da mousie, no touch-a da mousie" disposable trap (bait it with peanut butter, rotate the top, set in place, and when the indicator on the top says "bingo!" (or something to that effect), you simply pick it up and throw it in the Dumpster) to the truly high-tech electronic mouse trap, which uses four AA batteries to electrocute the invaders.

I don't want to use poison (the victims die who knows where and then putrify) and spring traps are out of the question (the chances of simply maiming the poor beast by catching a foot or nose makes me weep), and even the "quick kill" feature of the electrocution method arouse the humanitarian in me. I don't want to kill the little guys; they're just trying to make a living like everybody else. I just don't want them doing it in my house.

Luckily, for the softies in the crowd, there is the Victor Sonic Pest Chaser, which uses high-frequency sound to repel them. (N.B.: Unless you want your gerbil to suffer a psychotic break, do not use this method.) Plug it into a wall socket and the rodents go elsewhere. That, anyway, is the idea. I bought a twin pack and put one in the kitchen and one in the living room. I have no idea if this will work, or, since it's high frequency, even if they're emitting anything at all, except perhaps a high-frequency laugh.

Games for your brain

"The Daily Overlook"  listed this yesterday. Try "Dragger."

Road trip

My friend Dorothy and her son John took John's daughters to camp yesterday, and two days earlier, Dorothy had invited me to come along. So Saturday evening I stuffed a few things in a daypack and joined them.

Camp Towonga is in the Sierra, near Yosemite, so following a stop in Groveland for a picnic lunch, we deposited the girls at camp and took Hwy 120 up to Tuolumne Meadows. We stopped first at the west end of the meadow and followed the trail over to Pothole Dome and walked up it about halfway. From there we had a great view of Cathedral, Unicorn and Cockscomb (sp?) peaks and the meadow below, ribboned with water. All that exfoliating granite encircling us . . . unlike any place else on earth.

Descending from there, we drove a bit farther and walked up the trail toward Soda Spring. The trail crosses the Tuolumne River, small at this elevation but moving quickly, a portent of its much stronger and swifter iteration as it drops down the mountain. At Soda Spring, I scooped up a handful of the carbonated water that bubbles mysteriously from the rock; it tasted a bit like Alka-Seltzer. On the way back to the road, encountered a half-dozen or so marmots, fat and sleek, snuffling through the grass. They look like sombody's pet, soft and furry and cute.

Once back to the car, we drove to Olmstead Point and gazed out over the valley (terribly hazy due to so many fires). Past Tenaya Lake and up and over Tioga Pass, elev. 9,943 ft., and I got a good look at Mt. Dana; some years ago I hiked to the very top of that mountain. It's 13,061 feet high, and other than as a passenger in an airplane, the highest place I've ever been.

Once over the pass, the road descends steeply through a landscape completely different than that on the west side of the Sierra—drier, harsher, unglaciated. Found a place to stay in Lee Vining—a motel that has as one of its "rooms" a double-wide mobile home. For $150, we each had our own queen-sized bed in our own bedroom; two bathrooms. There was also a kitchen and a large living room (with a fireplace), but we took no advantage of those; instead, we went to dinner at the Whoa Nellie Deli, conveniently located inside the Mobil station at the foot of Tioga Pass—unprepossessing ambience, fantastic (and unlikely) menu, deliciously prepared. Dorothy and I had fish tacos; John had ahi tuna.

This morning John got on his bike and rode north on 395; Dorothy and I split a bear claw with coffee in the garden of the motel, then headed up the highway, meeting John at Walker Burger in Walker. From there we drove into Reno, where John lives; he took us to the Greyhound station and we boarded the 12:30 bus to Sacramento, arriving around 3:30. I'd left my car at the bus depot Sunday morning, and so drove Dorothy home before heading back to Davis.

Gone from home less than 36 hours . . . the best kind of road trip there is.

It's about time

Shelly Bailes and Ellen Pontes held their wedding reception this evening at the Vets Memorial Center. They invited everyone in town who wanted to wish them well and to celebrate and support the right of same-sex couples to marry. It's a good thing they held the event in the Vets, because it was packed. So many people, gay and straight, couples and singles, came to celebrate. They had five wedding cakes. Four were sheet cakes, each with a different phrase: "It's about love," "It's about marriage," and "It's about time!"; the last of the four said "Ellen and Shelly." The fifth cake was a "traditional" tiered cake; it was topped with two brides.

One of the best moments was when Shelly and Ellen asked all of the couples in attendance who planned to be married to come up and join them at the front of the room. There were so many, I couldn't count them all. Among them were my old friend Buzz and his partner, Sam, who will marry July 20, and Bob Bynum (who, in 1984, hired me to edit Staff News in the UC Davis Office of Public Affairs, thus inadvertently launching my career as a writer and editor) and his partner of 20 years, Peter, who got married this past week. If the voters in California could have seen the happiness in that room, the fate of the proposition banning same-sex marriage would be sealed. Mazel tov to them all!

Evening with friends

Arrived at Susan and Jim's about 5:45 bearing tortilla chips, salsa and a six-pack of Pacifico, which the three of us enjoyed out by the pool, chatting about U.S. immigration restrictions on bringing pork (in any form) into the U.S. from Mexico and skullduggery and intrigue in Elizabeth I's England. Jim eventually retired to the house to continue reading his book, and Susan and I took ourselves to Pasta Q?, where we had a lovely, leisurely dinner on the terrace (Susan had Caesar salad, I had the insalate alla mediterrane (tuna, green beans, hard-boiled egg, and tomatoes on a bed of greens--like salade nicoise minus the anchovies and potatoes). We both had a glass of pinot grigio, which went well with such a warm summer evening. And having such a charming Italian-speaking waiter was better than having dessert. Molto bene!

The Highway 99 Series

The Sacramento River Cats are playing the Fresno Grizzlies for the next few days, and the 'Cats promotion people are billing it as the Highway 99 Series. So far, the series is tied at one game apiece; last night's went in favor of the Grizz, but tonight it was all River Cats, who had 10 hits to Fresno's one and won the game 3-zip. [Correction: the final score was River Cats 4, Grizz 0.)

Usually, I root for the 'Cats, but when they're playing Fresno, the Giants' Triple A affiliate, it's a different story. Seems like nearly half of the Grizzly players are guys I know from the Bigs--many were with the Giants until just recently, while others have been back at Fresno since just after Spring Training ended. It's fun to see them in this smaller ballpark.

And tonight, thanks to Liese and a client of her firm's, we really got to see them, up close and personal. The tickets Liese had and shared with Susan and me were for the Founders Club. Translation: in the front row. And I mean The Front Row, right up against the screen that separates the field from the stands, right behind home plate. Padded chairs, chairside food and drink service, bird's eye (actually, nearly a worm's eye view) of the action. Quite a treat. We felt like rich people. And we saw a great baseball game.

A day in The City

My friend Dorothy and I took the train this morning to the new Contemporary Jewish Museum in San Francisco. The architecture is striking, starkly modern elements juxtaposed with a 19th century brick powerhouse, a blend made necessary by the latter's being listed on the National Register of Historic Places. But the architect, Daniel Liebskind, made it work beautifully, both outside and (especially) in. The interior space is broken up in interesting ways, each area feeling both cozy and spacious. The current exhibitions (there is no permanent collection) include "Being Jewish: A Bay Area Portrait," a photo montage accompanying various items ranging from Jewish ritual items (menorahs both modern and old, a spice box in the shape of the Transamerica pyramid) to the whimsical—a denim yarmulke made by Levi Strauss complete with the rivet at the top and, my favorite, the Rally Rabbi bobblehead handed out to fans at the Giants' 2007 Jewish Heritage Night—a Hassidic rabbi blowing a shofar and wearing a typical wide-brimmed black hat emblazoned with the orange intertwined "SF" logo. If I can find one on eBay, I'll buy it, money (almost) no object. There's also an exhibit entitled "In the Beginning: Artists Respond to Genesis" (plenty to see and think about in this one) and "From The New Yorker to Shrek: The Art of William Steig."

We had a lovely day; fun train ride, great weather, and a delicious lunch at the museum cafe, lots of time to talk, and I was back home in Davis by 7:15.

Father's Day

Some things my father gave me:

The enjoyment of baseball, not only the game itself but the things that go with it: the words to "Take Me Out to the Ball Game," the seventh-inning stretch, booing the umpires.

My nickname, "Cuccie," short for Cuccinello, as in Tony Cuccinello (nickname "Cooch"), an infielder with the Chicago White Sox who, while my mother was pregnant with me, made some amazing play or hit a home run or some such feat; said feat played a pivotal role in my father's winning a bet and resulted in his bestowing the nickname on me in utero. I shed it forceably at age 11, which I think hurt my father's feelings greatly.

The ability to play gin rummy, which I haven't played in years. I actually like to play cards, period, and used to do it a lot. Pinochle, anyone?

Brown eyes.