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.