Splendor in the grass

The Tule Ranch held an open house today. Part of the Yolo Bypass Wildlife Area, it's not usually open to visitors, and the article in the Davis Enterprise promised wildflowers and birds and lots of native grassland. I wasn't disappointed.

There were docent-led walks available, but I ignored them and just wandered off on my own to the west of the visitors' reception area toward masses of goldfields and tidy tips carpeting the fields. Sat in the midst of them, sketched a small green plant or two, and took some photos, but mostly just sat, listening to the wind and watching the flowers bob their yellow heads. Coast range sharp and blue in the distance, clouds moving slowly across the sky.

On the drive into the ranch, I stopped to watch a huge flock of geese (don't know what kind) circle over a field then slowly settle back down. Closer to the road, I spotted two large, long-legged birds with extraordinarily long, thin, curved bills. Looked them up in the bird book when I got home: aptly (though unimaginatively) named long-billed curlews.

I spent about two hours out there and came away feeling happy and peaceful; a mini-retreat for the senses and the spirit.

The ants come marching, one by one . . .

Remember that ant I wrote about a couple of weeks ago? Since then, two more have appeared, one this past Monday and one again this afternoon. I called the Bohart Museum of Entomology on campus on Monday to see if maybe someone there could identify the species by my description. "Why don't you bring it in?" the man said. So I put Monday Ant in an empty pint container (previously home to salsa), thinking I'd get it over there on Tuesday. But as Tuesday came and went, and I hadn't yet made it to the Bohart, I sprinkled a drop of two of water into Monday Ant's plastic house, thinking he might be thirsty. I felt responsible for his well being by this time. Unfortunately, he drowned, either because he couldn't get out of the water (there really was only a drop or two) or else, feeling despondent and hopeless to chanage his situation, he committed formicide.

I kept Monday, anyway (he was still recognizable as a Very Large Ant), and this afternoon, one of his nestmates showed up, same place, same behavior, same inexplicable appearance. Got Monday Ant's plastic home, nudged Thursday Ant into it, and headed for the Bohart straight away. And guess what—Steve the Bohart guy doesn't know what they are, either. After googling "ant images" (something I'd done, myself), he at first thought my specimens were pavement ants (a species I'd never heard of but that Steve says are fairly common around here), but on examining Mon. and Thurs. under the microscope, said, "Hmmm; nope, they're not pavement ants. This will take some research."

Steve had me leave my name and contact info, and when he figures out what Monday and Thursday are all about, he'll let me know. And then I'll let you know, too. Maybe it'll be some really unusual species. Kind of cool . . . I feel like a field entomologist.

Good neighbors make good fences

My neighbors Bill and Stacy are redoing their front yard, removing an old tree or two from the half-dozen or so that grow there, adding some new plantings and stepping stones that weave in and around the trees and flowers. And as the piéce de resistance, they took down the old, white picket fence and, in its place, erected this gem . . .

Bill designed the seaweed motif as an addition to the original, which was created by a company called Irish Iron. Here's the gate:

A whimsical and beautiful—and extremely fun—addition to the neighborhood . . . merci beaucoup, mes amis.

Bits and bobs . . . and baseball

Sitting here, 11 a.m., watching the Red Sox and the A's play baseball (at sweet, long last) in Tokyo. It's a tape-delay from the live game, which aired this morning at 3-something, but tape, shmape, I don't care; it's BASEBALL, and the winter-long drought is mercifully over. Perhaps its resurgence will presage my own. Herewith, the dribs and drabs of the few days past . . .

Gave some tips on editing to a UC Davis staff development class a week ago. Three hours is scarcely enough time to teach anything, much less editing, but I make no promises except the hope that the students will leave with one approach they hadn't thought of (which may well be the realization that editing ain't for them) . . . Ate a wonderful meal with my havurah ("havurah": Hebrew for "group of friends"); the star of the menu was chicken breast with a cranberry-port wine sauce. Fabulous . . . A potluck birthday celebration for my friend Phil, also fabulous; all Phil's friends are wonderful, inventive cooks (i.e., seafood paella, a meatball dish, white beans seasoned with Portuguese olive oil, steamed asparagus, beet and feta salad, chocolate cake from Just Desserts, and lots of good wine) . . . I have a new neighbor; he was born two weeks ago to Hillary and Conor, who live downstairs. He's been named River (his 7-year-old brother is called Granite), and a most adorable little guy he is. Quiet, too; I thought my feeble hearing might be why I never hear him crying, but Hillary says his cries are scarcely more than whimpers, which may atone for the struggle Hill had getting him to appear in the first place . . . Helped serve dinner yesterday evening to about 50 people who came to the weekly community meal. Bet Haverim takes the fourth Tuesday of every month, alternating between setup/serving and cleaning up. Last night's menu a bit different than the one at Phil's dinner: Southern supper (sausage, rice, tomatoes, green pepper, onion), cole slaw, mixed vegetables, macaroni and cheese, fruit salad, rolls, and an array of baked goods for dessert—cookies, cupcakes (with an Easter theme), coconut cream pie, triple chocolate mousse—milk, coffee, juice, water. The dinner guests were a mix: some obviously from the local homeless population (I recognized several, including one sweet man who has the most beatific smile and who doesn't speak, whether by necessity or choice, I don't know; I see him and his loaded-up bicycle often at the Co-op), some elderly people, some whom I couldn't categorize. More men than women, though. The tables looked nice—colorful tablecloths, flowers (donated by a local florist)—and there was live music, courtesy of a piano player and a violinist. Coversation was lively, the guests were cheerful, and a good time seemed to be had by all. There were no leftovers; as people finished their meal, many came up to the serving table to request a container or two of food to take home (clean, empty quart yogurt containers were on hand for this purpose). I had a good time shmoozing with people as they came through the line (I was serving the Southern supper) and will make this a regular date.

Insect conundrum

Now and then, an ant will appear on my computer table. Not "ants," but "an" ant—single, solitary, and quite large—and which seems to have materialized out of thin air. I never see one anyplace else, just on my computer table. I'll be working away, typing an e-mail or reading someting on the Web, and there it will be, zigzagging slowly and apparently aimlessly around. This morning, when I went over to the computer to check my e-mail, I found another one, this time on the keyboard . . .
As you can see, this is a pretty large ant. I have no idea where this one, or her (his?) comrades, come from. The only ants I ever see outside are the small, Argentine ants, never any the size of this lummox. They move slowly until they are cornered, then they hoof it—this particular one nearly made it into the keyboard before I managed to capture it and squash it (and they don't go quietly, let me tell you).

It's a bit disconcerting when one shows up (and why just one at a time?), as I can't imagine how it gets here or why only here on the computer table (though I'd rather have 'em confined than roaming free-range throughout the house). But with no other information and no working knowledge of ant behavior, it's liable to remain a mystery.

Wisteria dreams

For Susan . . .

Just how high IS W's S.Q.?

Meaning Stupidity Quotient. In today's New York Times, Gail Collins writes about The Leader of the Free World's talk on Friday to New York's financial community. (N.B.: I think the Free World would like its money back.) Every time I think I can't feel more embarrassed or ashamed of having this nincompoop as the president of my country, Ol' Mr. Glibshit manages yet again to top himself.

The "highlights" of his speech, as pointed out by Collins, are stunning in their failure to convey any sense of urgency, crisis or even awareness of the plight this financial debacle has visited on so many, and with no end in sight. Among the many clumsy and dense "points" he made, my favorite is this one, on what Collins describes as "the nub" of the housing crisis as perceived by Bush: "Problem we have is, a lot of folks aren’t responding to over a million letters sent out to offer them assistance and mortgage counseling.”

Gee, d'ya think maybe that's because those letters came back marked "No longer at this address"?

Changing the subject

If I talk (or even think) about politics any more for a while, I may commit a violent act. Spring is so much more, well, springy. Here's what it looks like these days in my front yard . . .



My sister knows the name of these orange-red flowers, and she told me what it is, but I didn't write it down and now I've forgotten. All I remember is it starts with a "C" and has at least three syllables, more likely four.


These little flowers, ranging from lavender through pale, pale blue to white, appear every year. I have no idea what they are, but I love them; they're thick on my street in the parking strip between the curb and the sidewalk. Like walking through a field of stars.

Again with the sex scandal?

When I first saw the headline in the New York Times that Eliot Spitzer had been found to be connected to a prostitution ring, I thought they meant that he was one of the lynchpins of the organization—one of the head guys making big profits off the backs (or wherever) of those high-priced call girls. Shocking, I said to myself; Eliot Spitzer, ferreter-out of corruption has been found to have his hand in the till.

Well, I don't know where he had his hand, but it wasn't in the till. No, the Guv was a client, paying out major bucks for the services of a well-paid "escort." And again, I'm asking, so what? What's the big deal? His wife is humiliated, of course, and whichever other elements of his family are old or aware enough to fathom the sleazy details. But why, when graft and corruption that do real harm cause only tiny waves in the smooth sea of business as usual (Enron, Halliburton, Dick Cheney all by himself), but when it comes to sex, we are appalled! Shocked! Outraged! and above all, Self-Righteous and Judgemental! Off with his head!

Mind you, if Spitzer is a big enough idiot to engage in an activity that he must have known without a doubt would, if discovered, be the end of his political career and possibly his marriage, does he have the common sense to be governor? It does give one serious pause . . . But what gives me even longer pause is the discouraging awareness that this country, this culture, while flaunting sex in every medium imaginable, still reacts with moral outrage when one of its leaders is discovered actually engaging in it. You'd think we'd have better things to do with our time, and better activities at which to direct our outrage. We could start with Iraq.

In the hills

Saturday morning I drove to Pope Valley to help give food and drink to a bunch of cyclists who had ridden there from Davis and, once suitably refreshed, turned around and rode back again. There are just a couple of ways to get to Pope Valley, none of them direct. I took the one I know best, the one I've ridden many times and the one the Saturday riders would also follow, which takes you past Lake Berryessa and winds through quiet, up-and-down back roads through Chiles Valley, eventually arriving in Pope Valley (pop. hardly anybody).

The best times of year to be in those hills are spring and fall, and Saturday was a picture-postcard example of why. Fruit trees in bloom, both the ones in actual orchards and those stray ones along the roadside, origin unknown but a delightful surprise when they appear. The most eye-popping element, though, is the mustard in the vineyards. It's at its peak now, and seeing its chrome yellow brilliance amidst the dark vines and against the green hills made me feel like I'd stepped into an Impressionist landscape, as here, along Lower Chiles Valley Road:

Fifteen years ago this spring, a friend and I were cycling along this same road and, just for fun, stopped in at RustRidge Winery. We were in the tasting room, chatting with the owner, when, in the next room, I spotted a litter of kittens poking their way here and there. It so happened that I had begun thinking about getting another cat, my sweet Moe having gone on to his cat reward about a year before. "Are you looking for homes for the kittens," I asked? Yes, indeed, they were . . . And so it was that, a few weeks later during Memorial Day weekend, Ernie and his brother, Julio, came to live with me (they having become old enough to leave mom and I having a vehicle more suitable than a bicycle to transport them).

On my way home from Pope Valley, a year now having passed since Ernie (a cat of most blessed memory) joined Moe and his brother, Julio, I stopped again at RustRidge. Was it possible, I wondered, to lose my heart twice in the same place? Though all was much the same as it was years ago, this time there were no kittens, though I did meet several lolling-about yellow labs and one excellent gray tabby called Tex. I also acquired a bottle of excellent Chiles Valley 2004 Zinfandel. Not as cuddly as a kitten but fully capable of offering its own kind of warmth and cheer, especially when enjoyed with friends.

Gone without a trace

Kabul, the Afghan restaurant on Second Street, has closed. My sister and I walked past their spot at some point while she was here, and there was no sign of them—just papered-over windows and a sign announcing that soon a new sushi (!!) establishment would open in that space.

I was crushed. Kabul's lunch buffet was a culinary treat—delicious, interesting food (their milk pudding sprinkled with crushed pistachios, alone, was worth the price, which was extremely reasonable, considering you could eat as much as you liked, and I liked it all). Their dinner menu, I thought, was less tasty, for some reason, but there always seemed to be a decent crowd in for the dinner hour (though not so for the lunch). The staff were wonderful, too, gracious and friendly and always ready to answer questions about the food and extoll the virtues of Afghani cuisine.

So now we get another sushi place. Whoopee. Time was, Davis was overrun with Chinese food and pizza places, the kind of thing you'd expect to see in a college town. But though there is still plenty of pizza around, there haven't been any new ones opening recently, and Chinese is losing favor (Kabul opened in a spot vacated by a Chinese restaurant that itself hadn't been there all that long). Now it's Thai and sushi, both of which are fine. But who needs so many, and who needs another sushi place when the loss is Kabul? OK, I know it's not the sushi joint's fault; not enough people thought Afghan food was what they wanted to eat on enough days. Even as much as I liked it, I wasn't what you'd call a regular customer, just a now-and-again one. And restaurants fail at astronomical rates. Nevertheless, I'm sorry to see Kabul go; I hope the owners manage to open somewhere where maybe they'll do better. I know I'll miss that milk pudding.

Holey feet

I'm getting seriously worried that once again we Dems will manage to waste our energy bickering amongst ourselves like kids in the back seat, while the Republicans (who should by all rights be ridden out of town on a rail or at least pilloried in the town square for all to mock and pelt with rotten eggs) will sit back and watch their supposedly smart opponents hold their feet out and wait for the self-inflicted shooting to begin.

Both Hillary Clinton and Barack Obama are highly intelligent, experienced, dedicated, passionate candidates. Either one will do a better job of leading this country out of the mess W. has created than John McCain will (and even he wouldn't, couldn't, be as disastrous as our current idiot). I said from the beginning that though I'm favoring Barack and voted for him in the primary, I would happily and strongly support whichever one got the nomination. Still true. But here's what I'm worried about. I worry that if this thing goes all the way to the convention, the nastiness between our two very good candidates will have weakened our position and given much ammunition to the Republicans' already scurrilous attack machine (and if Clinton is our nominee, that's like adding hydrogen to the blaze). I also worry that if Clinton wins the nomination, all those voters Obama has been able to galvanize into believing things can really change, that the political process can, indeed, include them (the young, the marginalized, the cynical), well, they'll slip back into the shadows, disillusioned and bitter. (Remember the '60s, when we thought we could change things? Me, too.)

These things may not come to pass, and I may be fretting about this stuff needlessly. Our case against Republican policy may be strong enough in the minds of voters to overcome the smears and dirty campaigning they'll employ, and those voters Barack has appealed to may stay on board with Hillary, especially if he can convince them of its importance. And maybe those whole thing is evidence of how democracy works and I should be thrilled that we have two such great candidates that are strong and appealing to so many of us. Which I am. But I've seen too many holes in too many Democratic feet in recent years, and I'd prefer to see those holes shot in the Republicans' policies.

As I was saying before that interruption . . .

I bought these tulips from Annie Main at the farmers' market Saturday morning. Here's what they looked like then . . .
and here's what they looked like today . . .

I knew they'd blow up on me in practically no time, but I don't care . . . they are magnificent, even as they open wider and wider.

On Friday afternon, I put my sister on a plane back to Birmingham, England. She'd been visiting for two weeks, about half of which we spent in Southern California visiting relatives and friends, including our Aunt Marie, who turned 89 this past Sunday; our friend Ruth Schmitt, who will celebrate her 91st birthday later this month; and my sister's first meeting with my granddaughters, who are now 7 and 5 years old. All the traveling and visiting were the cause of my hiatus from this blog (I did have my computer but it turned out I had no way to access the Internet). Were this a perfect world, and I a perfect blogger, I would fill in the gaps with anecdotes and photos of her visit. But it's not likely to happen, at least not in any coherent way. Life moves on, and quickly, and there's nothing like keeping pace with the blog posts to bring that emphatically home.

Tomorrow the voters in Ohio and Texas may give us a clear front-runner for the Democratic nomination. I hope so; it's time to focus before McCain gets too much of a head start telling voters how much better he is at national security than either of the Dems. Sorry, John; promising me eternal war doesn't make me feel all that secure. It's time for a change.

On, Wisconsin!

I had to call a credit card company the other day to verify my account, and in the course of the conversation, the woman on the phone—I think her name was Donna—mentioned that she and the company were both in Wisconsin. I'm one of those people who have actual conversations with business people on the phone, so when we finished our credit card talk, I said something about Wisconsin's upcoming primary election and whether Donna had been paying attention, and she said, yes, absolutely; that Barack Obama had been in Madison and how exciting and energizing it all was, and how much interest everyone is taking in the process, including her and her friends and family. "I'm 23," Donna said, "and this is only the second election I've been able to vote in. I'm so excited. I really think this is our chance to change things."

I don't know why I got such a charge out of this conversation, except maybe that here were two people, strangers to each other, a generation apart in age and a half a continent apart in geography, but connected by an idea that inspires us and gives us both hope for our future. So, thanks, Donna; it was great talking to you.

Play ball!

I've been posting a lot recently about signs of spring, but you know what? All of 'em—the trees in bloom, sightings of convertible cars and convertible toes, even the mosquito that scoped out my bare arm yesterday afternoon—all are pretenders, pale simulacrums of the one, true harbinger of the sweet season: Spring Training!

Yes, baseball is back, or at least the pitchers and catchers are, most of whom reported to their respective teams in Arizona or Florida. Soon, they'll all be back, and for a few months, at least, no matter what's happening in politics or the economy or even the steroid brouhaha, there will be players taking the field, coming up to bat, each doing his damndest to adhere to baseball's simple philosophy: throw the ball, hit the ball, catch the ball.

The Giants aren't expected to do great things, but I don't care, really. I'm glad Bonds is gone, glad to see some new, young kids make their way into the Bigs, full of energy and ambition. If they make mistakes, so what? It'll be hugely entertaining. Welcome back, boys.

Topless

I say R, I say R-A;
R-A-G, R-A-G-G;
R-A-G-G, T-O-P-P,
Ragtop!

In yet another sign of spring a-springin', over this past weekend, I spotted four convertibles whose drivers had rolled back the ragtop and let the sun shine in—a red MG, a white Chrysler number (whose driver had the rap music cranked up to broadcast volume), a black VW Cabriolet, and snazziest of all, a red, 1960s-vintage Plymouth Fury, about the size and shape of an aircraft carrier. Sweet!

Naked toes

It was warm enough this afternoon that after my bike ride to Winters, I put on capris, a T-shirt under a long-sleeved shirt, and, mon Dieu! pulled my sandals out of the closet and put 'em on. (This was followed hastily by a quick-and-dirty application of toenail polish so we could look our best.)


Walked downtown feeling springy. By 5 p.m., though, the air was chilly again and I swapped the T-shirt for a turtleneck and the sandals for warm socks. Still, sandals are right up there with blossoms and robins as harbingers of spring. That, and Spring Training, which trumps them all and begins just 3-1/2 days from now.

Pomposity or ignorance? You make the call . . .

Back at the Center for Mind and Brain this afternoon to participate in another experiment. Before the experiment began, I filled out and signed a couple of forms, including a consent form. A sign posted in the lab reads: "Steps to consent a subject." I nearly wept.

Oncle Gordo's Bag of Treeks

One of the first Sunday comics I remember reading was "Gordo," drawn by a man named Gus Arriola. Gordo was a Mexican. He had a nephew, Pepito, a dog named Señor Dog, a donkey and probably some other critters. He was big and fat, he wore a sombrero, and he got himself into situations that even a 6-year-old like me found funny, predicaments or being annoyed with Pepito that always brought forth an "Ay, carramba!"

Gordo's best prop was his "bag of treeks," a very large Santa Claus-like sack. I can't remember anything of what was actually in it. But what I do remember is that when the summer I was 6 years old and my family set out from San Diego to drive to my grandmother's house in Lincoln, Nebraska, my mother produced her version of Oncle Gordo's bag of treeks. In a big bag (clearly labled "Oncle Gordo's Bag of Treeks") were games, coloring books, small toys, maybe Lifesavers or some gum. Every morning, as we started out on another day of driving, Mom would open the bag and pull something out for us.

Gus Arriola died this past Saturday; he was 90 years old. I haven't seen a "Gordo" comic strip in probably 50 years, but I've never forgotten Oncle Gordo and his bag of treeks or my mom's whimsical, affectionate, and clever way to keep two little girls amused on a long car trip.

Super Tuesday aftermath

[N.B. This was written last night as an e-mail to the E Street caucus . . . ]

I worked the polls all day, got home about 9:40. My precint had 226 votes cast (Phil was one of 'em), not exactly a huge turnout but a lot of Absent Voters, too. So, the votes are in . . . I voted for Barack, having meditated, thought, prayed about it. Hillary seems to have taken California, good for her. I know Dorothy is pleased, and maybe Phil and Linda, too . . . maybe others? I'm not displeased, no matter who the Dems nominate will be strong. Look to beating McCain, since he appears to be the front-runner and the likely Republican candidate.

I'm blathering . . . long day . . . but momentum and attitude are everything; sometimes, with enough attitude, you don't even need momentum.

Let's work for change, no matter who brings it home.

Flinging into spring

Spring has its official start when the vernal equinox rolls around, this year ca. March 20, but try telling that to this precocious stunner up on 10th Street . . .

The bees had discovered it before I did; when I took this picture, I could hear their buzzing. Maybe if you look closely, you can see them . . .

(In)decision '08

The E Street version of the Democratic caucuses gathered around my dining room table last night. There were eight of us—Gishi, Milt, Lorna, Stu, Linda, Dorothy, Phil and me—and for roughly three hours we discussed, opined, mused, pondered and fretted. Having two outstanding candidates to choose from: Hooray! Having to make a choice between two outstanding candidates: Boo!

We attempted to be objective and methodical. We visited the Web site glassbooth.org and collectively answered the survey questions, comparing the percentages of agreement between us and the candidates. Then, really, we just talked, realizing that, for us, this time around, it's not so much about issues (the differences between Hillary and Barack being virtually negligible) as it is about our guts and our hearts. For me, it comes down to asking which one of them gives me the most hope that we can begin to reerse the terrible damage that the Bush administration has inflictd on our country? Which one has the imagination, the audacity, even, to approach the mess and try a new way to whittle it down?

At the end of the evening, the consensus was that we were even more undecided than when we'd started. But we all agreed that what we'd done was valuable, and we'd learned a lot from each other.

So, where does that leave me? Graphic designers have a version of the old light-bulb joke that's told when a client says the company wants a new brochure. It goes like this:
Q: How many graphic designers does it take to change a light bulb?
A: Does it have to be a light bulb?

In other words, maybe a brochure isn't the best way to get what you want. In this crucial election, maybe what I want is not experience so much as innovation, someone who's neural pathways won't be inclined to head down the same route they've been before. I think that's a description of Barack Obama, and that's who I'm going to vote for. I think.

A Dem's dilemm

Election day is this coming Tuesday, and I still haven't decided: Barack or Hillary? Hillary or Barack? Lately I've been leaning strongly toward Obama, but tonight, watching the debate between the two, I can make a case to myself for Hillary. I like Obama's vision and what I see as his ability to break with the "same old, same old," but worry whether his inexpeience will make him ineffetive. I admire Hillary's grit and savvy but worry about the specter of renewed Clinton-bashing and resurrection of the old polarization.

So, tomorow night, I'm hosting my own personal Democratic caucus. I've invited several friends over (all Democrats), to discuss both candidates and (I hope) help me make up my mind. Some of them have already voted, some, like me, are still wavering back and forth.

Regardless, though, I sat here tonight watching the two candidates and thought, come November, I'm going to participate in an extraordinary event: cast my ballot for either a woman or an African American for President of the United States. Twenty years ago, even 10 years ago, I wouldn't have believed it could happen. Things really can, and do, change . . . sometimes, even for the better.

Gap in the record

I've misplaced a notebook. It's been missing for some days, and every day I keep thinking it'll turn up somewhere. I've looked for it in the usual places—various tote bags, purses where I might have put it, my work area—and find I'm rechecking the same places, unwilling to believe I've somehow lost it.

I've been using these notebooks for years. Daytimers makes them, and I buy them in packs of three. They fit nicely into a purse or backpack or even a pocket, and they've ended up being kind of an ongoing record of my day-to-day life. It's not a journal, and I don't treat it as such. I make lists in them, jot down things people tell me that I don't want to forget, note titles of books I want to read so that when I go to the library I can actually remember them, copy bits of writing or overheard conversations that strike me as funny or relevant. Here's what they look like:

The one on the left is the one I'm currently using. The right-hand one is from 2003; the note below the date says "Trinity backpack to John McPhee."

I'm oddly (or maybe not so oddly) disquieted that I can't find the one I've misplaced. The last time I definitely recall having it was Dec. 21st, when I copied my notes from it to my post "Notes from 30,000 feet." I haven't ransacked the house, but really, there aren't that many places it could be, and though I'm not the tidiest person on the planet, the place isn't so chaotic that finding something is an Augean stables kind of task. I keep thinking it'll turn up, keep hoping, anyway. There's a lot of my life in there that I don't like feeling has gotten detached from me.

Pop quiz

A friend sent me a recipe for beef brisket. The directions say to marinate the meat, then ". . . [pop] it in the oven under a large foil tent."

I've seen that term a lot in relation to ovens and baking, and it's always given me pause: Why "pop?" The word seems so, well, perky; I envision a 1950s housewife, dressed in shirtwaist, heels and pearls, a cake in her oven-mitted hands, smiling her never-changing, ever-beaming smile.

But, so far as I can tell, she's not popping, and neither is the oven nor the item being inserted in same. So, from whence "pop?" Why not "shove" (for those in a resentful or truculent mood), "wedge" (a Thanksgiving turkey, perhaps), "toss" (the hurried or harried approach), or, for the "nothin' says lovin' like somethin' from the oven" crowd, "nestle."

If anybody has an idea of why we "pop" stuff into the oven, let me know. And while I'm waiting to hear from you, I'll just go ahead and plop something into the microwave.

Big valley

The forecast was for rain today, but it never materialized, and since the weather was cooperating, and since I hadn't been out on my bicycle for nearly two weeks, I headed out around 1:30 to do the loop I call Tour de Trash, as it takes me past the Yolo Co. landfill.

When the air is washed clean like today, with a mild northwest wind, all the features in the landscape are vivid. Big, big skies, filled with big white clouds processing in their stately way across the flat, flat valley to join their compatriots up against the Sierra to the east, the downtown Sacramento skyline looking like a pop-up book on urban architecture. The slough just to the south of Rd. 28H (the dump road), was nice and full and running at a respectable clip toward the wetlands. I saw a great egret and a great blue heron, several red-tail hawks, lots of gulls, both on the ponds and wheeling above the landfill, looking like scraps of white paper caught in a whirlwind. The fields have greened up, thanks to the rain, and there's a fair bit of standing water at their edges.

It was a short ride as rides go, just 14.5 miles, but it was full of all the things that make cycling such a treat for the senses. And it is such a gift to be able to get on the bike and be out in the countryside within a matter of minutes. I love living in a town with edges.

But first, a word from our sponsor

The San Francisco PBS station has been airing a series called "Pioneers of Television." Beginning with the late-night talk-show hosts, so far it has covered variety shows, early situation comedies, and game and quiz shows. Much of the footage originated in the 1950s and '60s, and it's brought back memories of sitting with my family and watching Perry Como, Sid Ceasar, The Honeymooners, This Is Your Life, and, especially, the game shows—What's My Line, and Password.

But even better than the video clips are the glimpses of the products that sponsored these shows. Many of them are long gone, or at least I haven't seen them lately—Helene Curtis was one; so was Dristan (is this still available?). My favorite so far is Stoppette spray deodorant, smack on the front of the What's My Line? panel depicted as a great big bottle shooting out a spray of droplets. I remember Stoppette, though I don't recall it reminding me of nasal spray.

Rain

We've had rain for several days now, not torrential, but you wouldn't mistake it for mist. Today, though, it's been raining hard and steadily since noon or so. I walked to campus around 3, and back home at 5, and the gutters were running, no, gushing. I opened my back door just now to check whether it's still coming down (it is), and everything seems to be gurgling.

I know some folks are beginning to chafe at the lack of sunshine, but personally, I like this stuff a lot. Good thing, as it's forecast to keep at it through the weekend and maybe beyond.

And another thing!

Met my friend Phil Gross for coffee at Peet's yesterday morning. We don't see each other too often these days, but the gaps in chronological time are never replicated in our conversations, which seem to take off from the same place we left them when last we met.

Talking with Phil is like talking with no one else. He's witty, quirky, passionate, opinionated as hell, caring, clever, and just damned fun, not to mention possessed of enormous talent. So we talked Macs, politics (how W manages every day to make our lives less plesasant, our hopes for the presidential election and whether Barack or Hillary would be better for the country and which one inspired us more), baseball (the Giants chances in '08, whether Barry Bonds is finished as a ballplayer, the merits and demerits of the DH, and whither Pedro Feliz), and basketball (the Kings; I'm not a basketball fan, but hearing Phil describe their style of play and their gelling as a team was almost like having a courtside seat). There may have been other topics glanced upon, but those were the highlights.

We occasionally disagree—I'm nearly as (he would say much more) opinionated than Phil—especially about baseball, hardly ever about politics, but it's wonderful conversation. We could have a television show; we'd call it "And Another Thing!" We'd never get sponsors, but our friends would get a laugh.

Here's Phil . . . a self-potrait:

Tra-la-la-ing

Tonight was the Woodland Chamber Singers' first rehearsal for the spring concert, in May. I sang with this group a couple of seasons ago and really enjoyed it, so I'm back again. I don't have a great voice; my range is hopelessly narrow and there's not a lot of resonance, but I can carry a tune, and—a real dividend—I can sightread (the only residual benefit of my days playing the clarinet in jr high and high school). Lucky for me, there's no audition—just show up and be willing to learn the music.

I'm definitely out of practice. But if this time around is anything like a couple of years ago, my vocal cords and my breath should start to improve fairly soon. And the music the director has chosen is inspiring; the spring concert is called "American Tapestry," everything from "Polly Wolly Doodle" to "Blowin' in the Wind," with side excursions into "Gimme That Old-time Religion" and a whole lot of other good stuff. Great arrangements, too.

Dr. King goes to kindergarten

I asked my 5-year-old granddaughter if she knew why today is a holiday.

"It's Martin Luther King Day," Courtney said.

Tell me about him, I said.

"He had brown skin and black hair."

And why do we have a special day for him?

"He was a leader, and he died."

Her 7-year-old sister added that Dr. King let all kids go to the same school. And that when she and her classmates made cut-paper portraits of him, she was the only one who made his eyes small, like they really were. "All the rest of the kids made his eyes REALLY big, but they were small!"

Nice to know my grandchildren have an appreciation for detail.

The lab rat

I went to the UC Davis Center for the Mind and Brain this afternoon to be a subject in an experiment designed, the ad said, to assess short-term memory. All subjects had to be older than 60 (I qualify). Turned out, the long-term objective of the study has to do with short-term memory in schizophrenics (age not specified); my cohort is the "control" group.

So I sat in a soundproof room in front of a computer monitor, wearing a set of headphones (through which came the sound of the ocean) and holding a gameboy-type control. My task on the first go-round was to spot the horizontal red oval amongst the varying patterns of vertical red and blue ovals; if the oval was unbroken, I pushed the left button on the console, if it was a broken oval, I pushed the right button. The second go-round switched the colors on me and I had to find the blue horizontal oval and indicate broken or un-. Kinda boring but not difficult, and the pattern stayed on the screen until I made a selection.

Then came the second part of the experiment. Either three or four small squares, each a different color, was flashed on the screen for maybe a hundredth of a second. This would be followed by a second set of colored squares that would remain on the screen until I decided whether the second squares were the same or different than the first ones. Sometimes, the first flash of squares would be followed immediately by multicolored squares, then I'd see the second set. Another part of this section was selecting which square had changed color. This was really, really hard; the trick (if there was one) was not to "look" at anything but instead focus on the little focal point in the center of the screen. I got marginally—only marginally—better at it when I got into a kind of trancelike, nonthinking state, which makes me think that perhaps the real nature of the experiment is to induce schizophrenia . . .

I'll get $15 for this 90 minutes of button-pushing, and when they asked me if I'd be willing to be in their database of potential volunteers for other studies, I said sure; $15 is $15.

The thrill of Bill

Bill Clinton came to UC Davis this evening to campaign for Hillary. The announcement in the paper said he'd be speaking at 9 p.m. in the Pavilion (aka the old Rec Hall) and that there'd be seating for 1,800 to 2,000 people. Susan, Bill and I wanted to hear him, so we headed over to campus about 7 o'clock. A lot—a LOT—of other people had the same idea; when we got there, the line was already literally around the block, several people deep all along its length. But we figured what the heck, we were there, and we might get in, so we found the end of the line and took our places in the queue. The north wind had begun blowing earlier in the day, and it picked up and got colder as we waited. And waited. But the crowd was good natured, lots of joking and speculating on whether any of us all the way back where we were would make it into the hall (one woman said, "If I don't get in, I'm voting for Obama!").

I saw some university staff people and other non-student-looking types in the crowd, but most were students, and I felt encouraged and heartened by their evident interest. But my nominee for the most inspiring person there was the young man right behind us in line. His name was Nick, and he's in the fifth grade in Orangevale, about 35 miles east of here. He wanted to come hear Bill Clinton, and so he and his mom drove over and got in line. Nick said he's interested in the election, and he and his classmates talk about it sometimes. Right now, he says, about half of his class is for Hillary, and the other half is for Obama. He himself hasn't yet made up his mind.

We didn't get in. We ended up watching some of Clinton's remarks on the TV monitor in the Fox 40 truck; the guy at the controls saw a bunch of us standing outside peering in his windows, and he opened the side doors so we could see better, and he turned up he sound so we could hear. Nice of him to do that, and in future I will think more kindly (well, a little more kindly) about the Fox 40 organization.

I was disappointed not to get to see Bill up close and personal, but I've seen him in person twice before. What I was really hoping for, and what made me feel the most disappointed, was that Nick didn't get in, either. If I'd had the chance, I'd have given him my spot.

Relativity

Johnny Podres died Sunday. I remember seeing him pitch for the Dodgers after they moved from Brooklyn to Los Angeles in the late 1950s, and though at the time I doubt I knew his age, I guess I always thought of him (and other ball players) as much older than I. But he wasn't, as I discovered in reading his obituary: he turned 75 this past October. That's only 11 years and some months older than I am today.

How can that be? I felt so much younger than he when I watched him play ball, and now I feel such surprise that he was so young. Time and age are relative, I guess, and they compress with age . . . leastways, my age . . .

Temping

I answered an ad for help taking inventory at the Avid Reader bookstore, and so today, from 10 a.m. to 6:30 p.m., I read out prices from books while my inventory partner made hash marks on price sheets. I must have handled a thousand books, maybe more. It's all a blur.

The sections I inventoried were Philosophy (religion, astrology, etc.), Science/Nature (the funnest and most frustrating section because there's so much there I want to read but no time to browse today), Reference (a giagantic category encompassing foreign language instruction, dictionaries, study guides, etc.), Business (lots of Nolo Press titles in that one), Parenting (overall impression: parents are terrified of their children and need many, many books to help them deal with the little tyrants), and the Remainders (how did most of these get published in the first place?)

I can tell you that the most popular price for a paperback book is $14. 95. I saw many titles that I would have loved to linger over, but titles weren't what we were supposed to be paying attention to. One title, however, did stick in my mind: Madame Bovary's Ovaries. I intend to take a closer look at that one the next time I'm at the bookstore.

Stuff

On a visit to the Davis Public Library yesterday, I checked out In Flagrante Collecto (caught in the act of collecting), by Marilynn Gelfman Karp, a folio-sized paean to collections of all kinds and to their collectors, also of all kinds. There are lots of illustrations of things people have collected, interspersed with Karp's discoursing on the allure of it all.

Some of the collections are what you'd expect—stamps, baseball cards, old advertising signs, postcards, matchbooks—but some are truly bizarre. Ever met anyone who collects those tags attached to mattresses and upholstered furniture, the ones that say "Do not remove under penalty of law"? Apparently, many flouters of the law have amassed these in carefully tended collections. And how about "wait your turn" tickets, those little paper tabs imprinted with a number that tell you how long you have to stand around until the deli guy takes your order? These, too, are considered collectible by Ms Karp, who claims to have quite a few of her own.

I like lots of things and some part of my psyche would like to collect any number of interesting objects, but though I blame my lack of space as the reason I don't, I know the real reason, which is that everything that I bring home that could be called a collection never gets collected. It just ends up in a drawer or on a shelf behind something else, and dies of neglect. Oh, well . . . I'll be happy to save mattress tags for anyone who'd like them.

Watch your tongue

Lake Superior State University has issued its 2008 List of Banned Words, and not a moment too soon. I agree with most of their selections (among them, "wordsmith" and "authoring") and only regret that past entries are still around ("Your call is very important to us" [1996]). I don't know if "future plans" has made it to any previous list, but it gets my vote.

Diana Ross, call your agent . . .

. . . in the name of love, before you break my heart . . .
Think it oh-oh-ver . . .

Wish fulfillment

OK, the weather mavens got it right this time—plenty o' rain, more-than-plenty o' wind. I got off lightly compared to some (who had whole trees fall on their houses). Still, it was exciting in a scary kinda way, especially when a large limb crashed onto the roof of the house next door with an alarming WHOMMMP sound; luckily, it did little if any damage. All I suffered was a power outage, and in that I was joined by nearly the whole town. Mine was off for 23 hours, and as of yesterday, some people still were in the dark. Luckily enough, the lights downtown stayed on (Downtown Business Assn clearly has pull with PG&E), so, since no electricity = no cooking for me, I headed down to Crepeville for dinner along with a whole lotta other people, there and at other restaurants, bookshops and whatever else was open and lit.

But it was dark, really dark, in the parts of town that didn't have power, and it was disorienting. You don't realize how much light is usually around, not just from street lights but from lights inside houses, or porch lights, or even traffic signals. And the cloud cover added to the sense of inkiness. Add the hazards of branches and other debris all over the sidewalks and in the streets, and you've got some perilous walking or driving conditions.

But the birds didn't seem to mind any of it. Despite 50 mph winds and horizontally falling rain, the house finches were at the feeder. Looked a bit bedraggled, mind you, but apparently unfazed. How strong they must be.

Surveying my deck yesterday, I discovered this souvenir the wind had left (look at the right side of the feeder):
Here's a shot of the limb that fell next door:
And here's where it came from:

Iowa

Barack Obama has won the Democratic Iowa caucus, and no matter what happens after this, I am here to say how amazed, stunned and utterly thrilled and grateful I am to have lived to see a black man (with his black wife and black children) on a platform declaring victory in a run-up to a U.S. presidential election.

People say nothing changes, but that's not true. When you have a black man and a white woman both vying for the office of president, both having a legitimate shot at getting elected, a lot has changed, and for the better. We have a long way to go, but as the old Virginia Slims ads used to say, we've come a long way, baby. A long, long way.

Update on The Big Storm: Had some decent rain this afternoon, and it's sprinkling right now (9:15pm), but so far no sign of the monster winds that have been forecast. I expect to be disappointed in my hopes for a big one, though later tonight and tomorrow could bring some good stuff.

Yesterday and tomorrow

Riding my bicycle yesterday afternoon, heading west along Rd. 29, came on a big red-tailed hawk at the edge of the opposite side of the road, hunkered down over his lunch of fresh rabbit; above him on the wire, a turkey vulture waited patiently for his turn.

The weatherpeople are forecasting a big storm for tomorrow and Friday. High winds and lots of rain here in the valley, blizzard conditions and snow levels in feet, not inches, in the Sierra. I'm excited at the prospect; we haven't had an honest-to-goodness good storm in a long time. But I'm not holding my breath; more and more it seems that forecasts of big weather turn out less so in the actual event. But maybe this time I'll get lucky.

Do hawks hunt in the rain? Are there any critters out in the rain to be hunted?

Save the date

New year, new calendars. I always have several of them—they're cheaper than buying art—and there are a couple of them hanging in the kitchen, one or two in the bedroom, and one on the wall next to my computer. This year, I also have a page-a-day one that sits on the desk, each day featuring a New Yorker cartoon, which will give me no excuse to begin any day in a grouchy mood.

Looking back through the "main" calendar for '07 (the one I write on) makes me realize how much goes on in my life—little things, like haircuts and dentist appointments, and bigger things, like vacations, weddings and (this past year) funerals. I'll transfer the birthday and anniversary reminders from last year's calendar to the new 2008 model, but I'll save the outdated one; old calendars are my diaries, and unearthing a 10- or 15 year-old one from a box or drawer can make me remember the details of those long-gone days better than anything.

The obessive-compulsive birdwatcher

I hung a tube feeder on the rail of my deck a week or so ago, and for the first few days, I didn't see a single bird in its vicinity. Then I went away for a week, and when I came back, the seed level in the feeder had dropped significantly. Seeing a scrubjay nearby, I figured it was he and his pals who had been at the feeder, but in the last couple of days, there have been several different kinds of birds showing up. Every time I see one out there, I grab my binoculars and stare at it, hoping to get some idea of what it might be; a finch? Could be . . . Or a sparrow? Maybe . . . but what kind of sparrow? Leaf through the Sibley's field guide, look fixedly at the drawings, try to match what I'm seeing on the deck with the beautifully drawn illustrations in the book. Hmmmm . . . Decide to record what I see (or think I see), and get a new notebook to write my guesses down. They kept coming, sometimes just one at a time, sometimes two, or three. Spot bird, grab binoculars, focus, stare, get Sibley's, stare some more, make notes, think I might have misidentified, make another note . . .

Birding . . . it's not just for Sundays . . .

A birthday remembrance

Today my older son, John, would have been 44 years old. He died Oct. 12, 1986, a few weeks before his 23rd birthday. I guess you really can't wish a happy birthday to someone who no longer celebrates them, but I don't care; I think of him every day.

Happy birthday, son. I miss you.

John at 18
August 1982

Long winter's night

It's 5:15 p.m., and I'm in my pajamas. I'm not ill; it's just that my pajamas are fleecy and warm. It's been cold and drizzly all day—not really raining, more like a fat fog that can get you as wet as a real rain if you stay out in it long enough. I walked downtown a bit ago to have tea with Alison and Allan, and now that I'm in for the evening, getting into my pajamas seemed the perfect wardrobe choice for a cold winter's night. Plenty of things to read (my accumulated mail came with a couple of new magazines and about six catalogs, and I'm two-thirds of the way through Richard Ford's The Sportswriter, which I'll probably finish tonight), not to mention my recently acquired cable TV hookup, which may actually have a decent movie on it somewhere (or a marathon showing of Law & Order: [insert spinoff subtitle here]. And I'm pretty sure there's some wine around here. Summer will be here soon enough; right now, I'm enjoying winter.

Home again

Back home. SoCal was cold and dry; Davis is cold and damp. I prefer the latter, and so does my hair. I had a good visit with my family, got caught up on events and states of mind, delighted in my granddaughters' exuberance and sweetness. Glad to have gone, glad to have returned; the best kind of journey, I think.

From spin class to Canter's

Went to the YMCA this morning with my cousin to do a spin class. It just takes one of those to remind me a) how out of shape I am and b) how much I hate spin classes. But it was good exercise, the most I've had in weeks, and if a little sweat is good, a lot of it must be even better.

Then, needing a dose of Jewishness to balance the Christmasness, we got in the car and drove over to Fairfax Ave. and Canter's Delicatessen for corned beef and coleslaw on rye. Delicious.

Heading home tomorrow . . .

How little we know

Watched the Kennedy Center Honors on TV this evening. Brian Wilson was one of the honorees. I loved the Beach Boys' music, still do, but I haven't paid much (read: any) attention to the pop music scene in years. So I missed hearing about Wilson's struggles with mental illness, drug abuse, weight gain, loss of the creative spark that made him such a seminal figure and his comeback in recent years. None (or very little) of this was mentioned on the show, but he looked so uncomfortable, so stiff and wooden, almost like he'd had a stroke, that I couldn't help noticing. It took my cousin's telling me about all of it to make me aware. And what I thought was, we go along taking pleasure in things created for us by others, blithely unaware (and not wanting to be) of what their lives may feel like, what the giving takes from them. We just want more of what we like. Made me sad for him in a way I can't be very articulate about yet, and that I owed him an apology.

SoCal Christmas

Another beautiful Christmas Day in Southern California, both inside . . .



and out . . .

A beautiful day, period.

Lights! Lights! Lights!

A house a few blocks from my cousin's, lit to the teeth and synchronized to Christmas music, and so over the top it's good . . .

The night before the night before Christmas

To Torrance and cousin Joe's yesterday evening; I'll be here through Friday. The kids brought me down and stayed for dinner: enchiladas and tamales and a green salad, preceded by chips, dips, etc. etc. etc. It was all delicious, as usual, and anyone who went away hungry has only him- or herself to blame. We were nine at table: Joe, Debbie, son Alan and wife Elizabeth, cousin Sue, my 88-year-old aunt, Marie (Joe and Sue's mom and my mom's sister), Fred, Jen, Shannon, Courtney and me.

My auntie and my granddaughters. My mother died when my sons were very young, so I'm happy to have Shannon and Courtney be with her sister, even for these brief visits.

Arboretum, L.A. version

This afternoon I took Shannon and Courtney to the Los Angeles State and County Arboretum, just up the road in Arcadia. It's a fabulous arboretum, with specimens from every continent, and in addition to a place for serious botanical research is a marvelous place to take kids. It's full of meandering paths, ponds, fountains, and Lake Baldwin with its Queen Anne cottage, built by Lucky Baldwin for his fourth (!!) wife, a 15-year-old who stayed married to the old goat for approximately one year. The best spot in the arboretum, though, is what we used to call the Jungle Trail, now renamed the Prehistoric Area—groves of tall bamboo, mysterious tunnels through dark undergrowth, part scary, part fun. When my sons were little, my mom used to take them to the arboretum to wander along the Jungle Trail, so it was a treat to go there with my own grandchildren.

Here they are at the Queen Anne Cottage. The interior is furnished in period style, complete with mannequins in costume, and at this time of year, it's beautifully decorated for the season. You can't go inside but you can look through the windows. Courtney wanted to know if we would see the queen, and we did spot a lady who could very well have been royalty, or at least quite high-born.


There are jillions of peacocks here, too, and not only in the arboretum proper but throughout the surrounding neighborhoods. People who live around here get used to hearing their unearthly shrieks and slowing for them as they meander across the streets. One wandered in front of the camera as I was taking the girls' picture.


The three of us had a great time. This evening, after dinner, we exchanged our Christmas presents. Here are the girls wearing their presents from me: headlamps from REI:

They spent several happy minutes in their closet, trying them out. Now, all we have to do is keep them from blinding each other with the beam.

P.S. Shannon read this post and said, "You didn't say anything about the dead squirrel!" OK. As we were walking up to the Queen Anne cottage, we saw a dead squirrel lying by the side of the path. It had a hole in its neck, with blood coming out. We don't know what happened. It could have been attacked by a raptor, like a hawk, but it's a mystery. Shannon said at the time, "When I go back to school, I'll say, 'On the second day of my winter break, I saw a dead squirrel!' It was sick!" Courtney wanted a second look, but not Shannon.

Notes from 30,000 feet

Takeoff from SMF, 3:55pm, into north wind, destination Burbank; flight path more easterly than usual . . . streets and houses below make patterns like inlaid mosaics, some white, some dark . . . trees cast long shadows on this solstice afternoon . . . land all lumpy, mousy brown, trees look like pebbles that could be brushed away were there a hand large enough . . . snow in the high country . . . and hanging over the wing, a nearly full moon in a pale blue sky . . . river canyons dark slashes . . . passing Yosemite, El Capitan with a cap of snow, Half Dome looks like half a bundt cake dusted with powdered sugar . . . White Mtns visible, seeming to dwarf the Sierra . . . right turn, and we're back over the Central Valley, roads and canals cutting their way south . . . grid of valley towns, straight roads, smooth rectangles, all under control . . . dozens of large plots containing scores of long, silver-roofed buildings . . . poultry? . . . don't know . . . and some odd, crisscrossed plots I've never seen before, even though I fly this route frequently . . . now some badland-looking terrain plopped in the midst of the groomed, tidy landscape . . . the big Central Valley Project canal appears below, fat as a nightcrawler, and as smooth . . . land now corrugated, arid, bleak-looking, some appears to have been flooded . . . where, exactly, is this? . . . Here are the Tehachipis, stark and beautiful as always, dusted with snow, ochre and pink in the long rays of the sun, places that look like William Morris paper . . . a river valley, dry riverbed branched and braided like sinew and muscle . . . over the top of the wing I can see the San Fernando Valley hoving into view . . . another turn and the orange paint on the wings looks lit from within, then another slight turn and it once again looks just ordinary . . . hard right, and the portside wing's angle reminds me of the raptors I saw wheeling in the sky last Sunday . . . Touchdown, Burbank, 4;45 p.m.

Solstice

Walking home up E St. yesterday afternoon from downtown Davis, I spotted a hawk flying low over the parking lot between 3rd and 4th. He landed in the big elm at the corner of 4th and E, which has so few leaves left on it that I could get a good look at him. No doubt it was a red-tailed hawk—light-colored breast, with what I think (imagined?) was a lightish belly band, and when it took flight again the pattern on the tips of its wings resembled the red-tail. But its head was quite dark in contrast to the rest of him, and I swear I didn't see the red tail. I didn't find any other hawk in the Sibley's that it could have been, so I can't be certain one way or another. The more birds I see, the more complicated it becomes. But Tuesday afternoon there were three turkey vultures perched in a big sycamore across from my house. Those, I recognize; no problem there.

I'm getting ready to leave town in a couple of hours, heading to SoCal to spend Christmas with my family. I'm taking Mr. Wonderful along, but blog entries may nevertheless be slightly more erratic than they already are. My winter solstice countdown clock tells me there are 14 hours, 52 minutes and 5 seconds left until the sun reaches its southernmost point and begins the return trip. Spring, with its longer days—and baseball!—will be here soon. Happy hols to all!

Two anniversaries

Nine years ago today, my son Fred married Jennifer Stewart aboard the Queen Mary in Long Beach Harbor. The bride wore Chantilly lace and a tartan sash. The groom and his groomsmen wore full-dress kilts. It was a wonderful wedding of two people who were clearly in love. They still are.

Eight years ago today, I crashed while riding my bicycle in Amador County. When I came to, my first question was, "Is my bike OK?" Then the paramedics showed up and loaded me into a helicopter, at the end of which I threw up. Too bad; it was the only helicopter ride I'll probably ever take, and it wasn't much fun. Diagnosis: five fractured vertebrae and a whole lot of (luckily) superficial road rash. My outfit for the next three months: a cervical collar and a brace thingy that made me resemble a cross between Madonna and a trussed-up turkey. Pictures of this you don't want to see.

Morning sun

When it's full-on summer, the sun pours directly into my kitchen window. But now, as we wheel closer and closer to the winter solstice, just around 8 a.m. its rays enter at an acute angle and light up the shelf where I keep my teapots. Hanging above that shelf is a framed lug label from the San Fernando Heights Lemon Assn. It's called "Morning Sun." The other day I took a picture of it when representation and reality coalesced.


P.S. No sun this morning; instead, we had an honest-to-god rainstorm. Supposed to do it again tomorrow, too.

Cheep thrills

Yesterday was the Christmas Bird Count, and I went along. As I mentioned in my Dec. 6 post, I'm a total beginner in the bird-watching world, so I wasn't at all sure how it would go. I told myself that I'd be happy if the day ended with my having been impact-neutral; i.e., having caused no chaos or havoc amongst the "real" birders or rendering their statistics useless.

I needn't have worried. I had a wonderful time! I was in a team of four, led by Mike Lawler, who, in my opinion, should be the designated newcomer-shepherd-in-perpetuity. He was patient, good-natured, easy-going, a great teacher and seemingly happy to have me along. And the best part was that we were covering an area extremely familiar to me, as it's a favorite bicycling route, one I've ridden numberless times. But I never saw it like I saw it yesterday. It's one thing to look at a cliffside or pasture, even at a slowish pace, and quite another to stand quietly and look at the ground underneath a pile of branches—I never knew there were so many birds out there. (I usually think of them as being only flying from one place to another, not hopping around under the shrubs.)

It was pretty amusing, though, at least to me. For instance:

Mike: Hear that? It's a [insert name of any bird smaller and quieter than a crow].
Me: Uh . . . no.
or
Mike: Those markings around the eyes mean it's a [insert name of interesting bird]. Did you see them?
Me: We-l-l-l . . . no.

Clearly, if I'm going to do any birding at all, I'm going to have to a) train my eyes to see more and/or get new glasses, and b) get hearing aids. Luckily, I was the designated recorder, my job being to note on the species list what we saw and how many of them, so nobody was relying on my impaired senses. (The printed list presented its own challenges, as it was arranged according to some convention known to people who do this all the time and based on some arbitrary ordering of species, not, as I would have preferred, alphabetically. I spent a lot of time searching frantically for the name of some bird or other and hoping I'd find it before somebody called out yet another species.) It was wonderful fun, though, and I was utterly absorbed in it, like you are when you're doing something new and interesting. It was cold, but it didn't matter. I didn't think about anything that didn't have to do with finding and recording birds.

And we did see some good ones. Here are some of them:

This is a phainopepla, a bird I'd never heard of until yesterday. Isn't he important-looking? I love his impertinent crest.

This guy is a ferruginous hawk, the only one seen yesterday by all the teams out on the count. Again, a bird I knew nothing of until yesterday.

And this lovely creature is a lark sparrow. Until yesterday, I had no idea there were so many different kinds of sparrows. Or that they are as large as they are. I learned a lot.

Let there be light

The best thing about the Christmas season is the lights, and in the past couple of weeks, the neighbors on the west side of my block have done a fine job of putting lights on their houses—nearly every one has some assortment or other. In bleak contrast, with the exception of one bravely cheerful home, my side of the street has had the look and feel of a block under blackout orders. So this afternoon I went downtown and bought two 35-light strings of LED lights and festooned them through the passionflower vine at my front door. Looks beautiful, and I feel much better.

Becalmed in December

That's how I am right now: becalmed. I've done what Christmas shopping I'm going to do (since I'll be traveling to Southern California for the holiday, I've ordered all the gifts for the SoCal family online and had them sent directly there so I don't have to stuff them into a suitcase), Hanukkah is on its way out (I'll light eight candles tonight), and, well, I just don't feel festive. My neighborhood is filling up with lighted houses, and they all look wonderful, and when I'm out in the evening, I love seeing them. But . . .

Laying low, reading, thinking . . . maybe this is the state of being we'd all return to if there weren't offices to go to, shopping to tend to, meetings to conduct. Or maybe I'm just in a slump.

Sayonara, Indian Summer

Cold! A sharp north wind has appeared, making the daytime temperatures feel lower than they probably are, and giving the nights a bite. It's beautiful, though. Out walking this morning, early, the sun just cresting the roof line of the houses, a persimmon tree, bare branches hung with fruit, each vivid orange globe seemingly lit from within. Whether it's the time of day or the time of year, that inner-light effect turns every autumn into a visual stunner. And the cold clear nights makes the stars hard and bright; every night, just before I go to bed, I step out on my deck and say goodnight to my old friend, Orion, the first constellation other than the Big Dipper that I learned to recognize. Always nice to welcome him back to the neighborhood.

Bird brain

Last night I went to the bird identification workshop offered by Yolo Audubon. I went because, though I like birds and enjoy looking at them, I can scarcely tell the difference between a chicken and a chicken hawk (and I don't really know what a chicken hawk looks like). The program included a lot of slides of various similar kinds of birds, the challenge to the audience being to say which one was which. I had no idea, of course (though I did know the mourning dove wasn't the ring-necked dove). But most of the differences came down to things like one bird having a darker stripe on its head (except when it didn't) or a larger patch of rosiness around its throat (except in the spring). Or something. All the birds were interesting, though, and beautiful to look at.

Despite my appalling ignorance, however, I was encouraged to sign up and take part in the annual Christmas Bird Count. So I did, and, along with my friend Dana, will accompany a much more experienced (and I hope infinitely patient) birder come Sunday, Dec. 16, out in the wide open spaces south of Winters. I hope there are a lot of chickens out there.

Speechless

I'm not much of a TV watcher. If you don't count baseball games, I've probably seen fewer than 100 hours of it all year. But I have been following the writers' strike. I occasionally write for pay. Once it's out there, in the world, it can kind of get away from you; no telling who's xeroxing it, or using it whole cloth in something they're writing. Not that this has happened to me, or at least I have no knowledge of it. But the point is, what I write, what anyone writes, is a singular thing, and wouldn't exist without the brain behind it. So it only seems fair and equitable that writers should share in profits generated when what they've written appears on the Internet, or on a DVD, or is transmitted in any other fashion. Kindergarten was supposed to teach us all to share. Were the studio execs absent that day?

For a look at the writers' take on all this, check out Speechless. Ditto the writers' blog. And if signing petitions is your sort of thing, you can do that here.

Back in the saddle again

I fell while hiking four weeks ago—caught my toe on a ridiculously small stub of some shrub or other and went down like I'd been sandbagged—and though it felt like every inch of the front of me made contact with the earth at one and the same moment, my right knee apparently struck a millisecond or two ahead of the rest. Diagnosis: a bruise behind my kneecap that has kept me off my bicycle ever since.

Until today. Today I rode again—not far, just to the Co-op and then took the long way home—but after four weeks of not riding, just being on the bike for that short time was exhilarating. The sore knee has kept me from riding, from doing any brisk walking, from doing much of any exercise of any kind. Not being able to do those things put me into a serious decline; been feeling quasi-blue and shut in. I'm not a rabid athlete by anyone's definition, but the lack of exercise, of being outside and breathing deeply, was beginning to wear on me. (Among other things, this blog has suffered from my lack of energy/motivation.)

So I'm keeping my fingers crossed that even though my knee is still sore to the touch, I'll be able to ride like I did today—easily and (relatively) pain free. I can cocoon only so long.

Distinguished speaker

I heard Luis Urrea speak last night. He's the author of The Devil's Highway, which tells the grim story of 14 "walkers" who died in the Arizona desert attempting to cross into the U.S. from Mexico. The book is about more than that, though; it's about people--on both sides of the border, on both sides of the law--who are working at cross purposes, sometimes even within themselves. A fair-skinned, fair-haired guy, he was born in Tijuana to a Mexican father and an American mother, and he spent the first half of his talk describing his family background and their quirky ancestral mix (his paternal grandmother's surname, for instance, was Murray, "pronounced," Urrea said, "Muurrrray.")

I've heard a lot of people lecture at UC Davis, but I have never heard anyone better than Luis Urrea (he joins Bill Clinton and Mario Cuomo in that category). Smart, engaging, moving, a riveting storyteller with a self-deprecating sense of humor who talked for a solid hour with nary a notecard to guide him; he made me laugh . . . and brought me to tears. He opened with a prayer to the four directions, which he spoke first in (I think) Nahuatl (I'm not sure I'm remembering the name correctly), then Mexican Spanish, then English: "I am West, I am . . . ; I am South, I am . . . ; I am East, I am . . . ; I am North, I am . . . ." Beautiful, moving, wonderful to hear how the words sounded in each version (and reminding me how words are only symbols of the things, themselves).

Urrea's Web site, La Vista, is worth a visit. And do I ever wish I could have dinner with him.

Visiting

I'm at my cousins Joe and Debbie's house in Torrance, where Debbie is in the throes of preparing to host about 18 people for Thanksgiving dinner. The woman has an abundance of courage, along with a 26-lb. turkey. I peeled potatoes, as close to unskilled kitchen labor as you can get and which suits my talents. Other than that chore, I spent the day chatting, reading the Los Angeles Times (still a good newspaper), and having fun watching J & D's 6-month-old granddaughter. At 2 o'clock, realizing I hadn't left the house yet, I went for an hour-long walk in the neighborhood. Dinner, some TV, more reading, and that's today.

Tomorrow, I will board the L.A. Metro's Blue Line, ride it to the Red Line, take that to Union Station and get on the Gold Line, riding it to Pasadena to spend Thanksgiving Day and my younger granddaughter's 5th birthday on Friday. I've only been on the Metro once, and that was a long time ago, when it was fairly new; rode the Red Line from Union Station to Olvera St. This will be a longer journey, and I'll have my large suitcase and a carry-on bag with me. Could be an adventure to remember . . . or forget.

Only in L.A.

I'm in SoCal, here for Thanksgiving week with family. Usually I fly into Bob Hope (nee Burbank) Airport, but this trip I came via LAX. There may be a spot in the world that's laying down a bigger carbon footprint, but if so, I don't want to go there. The airport itself wasn't too crowded, but outside, in the passenger pickup zone, it was zoosville, an unbroken stream of vehicles—passenger cars, buses (shuttle and public transit), taxis, vans, pickup trucks, police motorcycles, airport utility vehicles—all maneuvering, honking, creeping, making their way in a slow counterclockwise circle around the terminal, eyes peeled for an opportunity to dart into or away from the curb. Add to this mix the intermittent P.A. announcements ("The white zone . . . ," etc.) interspersed with Muzak that was nowhere near decipherable, and flight-deprived nicotine users puffing away, and you have a scene from one of those surrealist movies where you can't ever figure out what the whole thing is about. Many of the vehicles have a theme. I saw one white passenger car covered with a lacy decoration of pink vines, flowers and butterflies, the name "China Laundry" on the door. Another, a white 12-passenger van, had "H.I.S Tours" stenciled on it in blue, the "I" encircled by a halo. When I saw it, no one was aboard.

Turkey Trot

This morning, about 9 o'clock, the 10K runners in Davis' 20th annual Turkey Trot began streaming up 6th St., less than half a block from my house. I could hear them before I could see them, a murmer of sound that swelled as the crowd came into view. It was like being near a river—people filling the street from curb to curb, moving at a steady pace, talking, laughing, an occasional cheer, just like the sound of water as it flows downstream. They just kept coming . . . and coming . . . and coming. I belatedly checked my watch, and clocked more than two minutes before there was any lessening in the volume.

Among the spectators were a man and a little boy. The boy was really small, wearing a sweatshirt with the hood up, and from my second-story vantage point, he looked exactly like a garden gnome. When the two of them reached the curb, the boy just joined in with the runners, his dad falling into step beside him. Everyone cheered.