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.