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.