Small businessmen

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

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

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

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

Youth movement

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

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

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

Re-entry

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

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

Eye to eye

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


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

Local commentary

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

Keep Davis Boring

Buzz and Sam

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

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

Grandkids' tchotchkelehs

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

Growing up Mongol

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

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

Jane, Jane, Jane . . .

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Gloom

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

This is all beginning to feel Biblical.

Camping

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

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

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

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

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

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


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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Summer reading

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

Help wanted

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

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

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

Smoke gets in your eyes

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

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

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

Building better mousetraps

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

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

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

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

Games for your brain

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

Road trip

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

It's about time

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

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

Evening with friends

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

The Highway 99 Series

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

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

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

A day in The City

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

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

Father's Day

Some things my father gave me:

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

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

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

Brown eyes.

Nightmare in St. Louis

The Philadelphia Phillies are leading the St. Louis Cardinals 20-2 (no, that's not a typo; the score is Phils 20, Cards 2). And it's the 8th inning . . . or maybe the third quarter . . .

Notes on a bike ride

Short ride on the Tour de Trash-plus-Wastewater Treatment Plant loop, ca. 9:30 a.m. . . . Northwest wind presenting a small challenge heading north and west, lending a push going east and south . . . Along Rd 28H (aka The Dump Road), egrets small and large in the field to the north, and, on a wire to the south, astonishingly, an owl; no binoculars with me, so couldn't see what kind, but its ears were clearly visible . . . down past the wastewater treatment plant with its pungent scent of sulphur and a lovely view to the south . . .

Returning to Rd. 106, an encounter with another group of bikers, these a bit bigger (and louder) than mine . . .

One more photo, this one to the west from the bridge, then home . . .

N.B.: These pix taken with my cell phone and e-mailed from same to my computer. Ain't technology grand?

Running hot and cold (and windy)

A week ago today, the temperature was in triple digits. Midweek, we had gale-force winds. Today, the high was forecast to hit a whopping 61 degrees, with lots of chance of rain. I'm sure climate change is more complex than this, but if you ask me, this past week may be the phenomenon's seven-day cameo appearance.

Test case

My car is a 1985 Honda Accord LX. By virtue of its advanced age, every two years the DMV requires me to take it to a "test only" place to be smogged. In every previous instance, the car has passed the test with good marks, but every time it's due for another test, I wonder, will this be the year it fails? And if it fails, will I be able to get it repaired so it'll pass the second time around?

This has been a great car. I bought it used in 1987, when it had 25,000 miles on the odometer, and from then until now, just a few miles shy of 170,000, it's been everything I'd want in a vehicle. It's reliable, starts every time, is economical to run, and can hold a surprising amount of stuff, especially with the back seats folded down. Like its owner, it's showing its age a bit—some things don't work any more (I carry bottles of water to dump on the windshield because the window washer tank has a leak; the power assist steering cylinder leaks, too, so when I realize I'm working hard to crank into a parking space, I go get that filled; and there's a hammer on the floor in the front seat to whack the AC/heater fan housing when it gets stuck), and there are some places that could use a cosmtic touchup (driver's side upholstery worn down to the foam interior, sun visor fabric shredding . . .) But it runs, it's paid for, the registration is $60 a year, and my insurance is laughably cheap. So even though I occasionally think that, gee, having a newer car would be nice (and have a lot more safety features on it than my current car), I can't see any good reason to give this one up.

Unless it doesn't pass its smog test. So when I took it to E-Z Smog this morning, I focused on thinking positively, remembering how it passed all those other years, but worrying nonetheless—would this be The Year It Failed?

I needn't have worried. My little Honda passed, and not just by a hair; all the scores were good ones. So the two of us are good for another couple of years. I'm lucky to have her.

In honor of passing the smog test, I put the Obama bumper sticker on. It joins Clinton/Gore 96, there on the left, and John Kerry in the center. I'm hoping Barack does as well with his challenge as my little Honda did with its today.

While I was waiting for the test to be run, I copied down some of the signs in E-Z Smog shop:
On a sign headed "Anything broken? Altered?":
Malfunctions examples: Added ground effects/running boards/air damn
On a sign detailing types of payment accepted:
"The only restriction on cash is that it not be counterfeit. (If you are a counterfeiter, we apologize for the inconvenience.)"

Going (sort of) public

I've never been terribly "out there" with this blog, meaning I haven't distributed the URL far and wide. I don't include it in my e-mail signature, for instance, or otherwise refer to it. I shared it with family and a few friends, and if they read it, great. Sometimes they comment on a particular post, and I recognize their names when they appear in the moderation section.

So I was utterly disconcerted when, a couple of days ago, two comments on my Double Century post appeared from two people I don't know and who had read what I wrote without my knowing it. It felt downright Peeping Tom-ish. I guess those two bloggers have some search thing they do to find posts on cycling, as both of their sites have to do with riding, but I'm so unsophisticated in the ways of blogging that I have no idea how that works, or even that there is such a thing.

With the possible exception of a grocery list (and I can make a good argument that a grocery list reveals a lot), writing makes the writer vulnerable. Discovering that I've been read by unknown readers was a reminder of how comfortable it is to be anonymous, and how important it is, sometimes, not to be.

Yarhzeit

My mother died 35 years ago today, just a few weeks shy of her 61st birthday. Trying to write about her life and my feelings for and about her runs up against the dam holding back the words—fragments of sentences, whole paragraphs, inchoate emotions that swirl and churn, rise to the surface and are pulled deep again. It's like a rapid below a steep drop in the river, too much turbulence to stay there long. Better to get downstream a bit . . . I miss my mom. Most of all, I think, I miss what I missed.

Today is also the 31st anniversary of the day I quit smoking—May 18, 1987. The occasion was a 3-day whitewater trip on the Cal Salmon River. The coincidence of it being the same date as my mother's death is just that—a coincidence. I think.

Double Century

I'm sitting in the Davis Double Century HQ room, aka the Games Room at Vets Memorial, listening to the radio guys talk to the sags out on the course and watching the real-time map projected on the wall that shows where our last rider is. It's been a blisteringly hot day—at one point I checked the Web and the temp in Davis showed 106 degrees—and many more riders than usual are folding and needing to be sagged back to Davis. But many more continued to ride, despite the scorching temperature, which is made even more brutal from the heat reflecting off the asphalt. Riding in these conditions is exactly like riding in a Brobdinagian pizza oven.

I've been here since 4 a.m. after being here last night until around 10. I'm registration coordinator again this year, meaning I'm in charge of making sure those who registered get processed properly and that I get late-entry people into the system. It's fun but exhausting, especially at this point (10:15pm) when I've been up for so long and know that there is still much to do before I can go home and go to bed. There's all the rest stop food that's been brought back here to deal with, cleanup in general, plus waiting for the last riders to come in, which sometimes isn't until nearly 1 a.m. So, I'm tired, and getting tireder, and will be tireder still. But I'm glad to be here. Really. And the riders are so appreciative it's humbling. So I'll be here next year, if they'll let me.

I scream, you scream . . .

Today's L.A. Times carried the obituary of Irvine Robbins, who, along with his brother-in-law Burton Baskin, founded the Baskin-Robbins 31 Flavors ice cream stores. Nowadays there are lots of specialty ice creams around, featuring plenty of exotic flavors (along with astronomically high fat content), but for me, starting when I was a kid, 31 Flavors (as I've always called it) has remained the definitive ice cream shop. Not only did they have lots of flavors (I was partial to coffee, butterscotch ribbon and lemon custard) but they made ice cream cakes, some of which graced the birthday parties of my two boys.

This evening, I walked down to 31 Flavors in the E Street Plaza to buy a cone and raise it in tribute to Mr. Robbins. When I got there, the place was mobbed, the line stretching out the door. While I'd like to think this crowd was due to everyone having had the same idea as I, I have a feeling it had more to do with the warm evening. Not willing to stand in that line, I walked home coneless. But I'll be back.

Water baby

My synagogue held a fund-raiser a few weeks ago, and I ended up being the high bidder for a one-month membership at the Davis Athletic Club ($30—woo hoo!), so yesterday morning I activated it and went to the 8 a.m. aqua aerobics class. I'd been to it before, a few years ago when I was a regular DAC member, and my body has been wanting to get back to it.

This early-morning class is taught in what DAC calls the functional therapy pool. It's considerably smaller than the lap pool and—much the best feature—the water is warm; yesterday the announced temp was 88 degrees. So even if the air is chilly, entering the water feels wonderful. And you can get a good workout, or at least you can if you're not chit-chatting with your classmates the entire time; that element hasn't changed since I was last there. Clearly, some people see the class as a chance to catch up on their friends' lives and fill them in on their own. I know several of the women (and most of the class is female, though there are a few men), and I'm sure they think I'm antisocial because I don't engage with them when they greet me, but I don't want to multi-task during a workout, and besides, I'm concentrating too much on following the instructor (who is quite good and has the patience of Job; if I were she, I'd banish all the talkers to the far corner of the pool and tell 'em to yak out of the way of other people who are there to actually exercise. Harrumph.).

On the other hand, it's a good place to get your head on straight regarding body image. Like many women, I've spent a good deal of my life being critical of various parts of my body—legs too big, breasts too small, upper arms too flabby, blah blah blah—the only variations on the theme being the parts currently under the microscope. But spend some time watching older women emerge from the locker room and enter the pool. Talk about your variations in size and shape. As you might expect, given the time of this class, nearly all the students are "mature"; i.e., well into their 60s, some in their 70s, maybe a few 80-year-olds. Looking at them, with all their lumps, veins, and bulges, I felt simultaneous relief and humility. Relieved that despite my less-than-ideal weight and fitness level I'm in way, way better shape than most of them, and humbled (and a bit ashamed ) to think that I'm so damned vain. Good time to get over myself.

P.S. As promised, here are a couple of pictures of the results of Sunday's planting spree:

Salvia (foreground), Moroccan mint and lavender
(non-working fountain visible in background)

The herb pot
(basil, parsley, oregano, chives)
Blue Moon lobelia

Babz' Bistro

Dust Bowl goes green

Well, a little bit green, anyway. Time was, I had a lot of plants growing in pots and planters on my deck, but over the past few years, for reasons circumstantial (my landlord tore the deck off to fix the leak in the ceiling of the flat downstairs and it didn't get rebuilt for nearly 18 months) and whimsical (I had no energy for it), I've let it languish. Seeing all those pots out there, many half-full of bone-dry planting soil, began to get to me, and I've been promising myself that I'd get something in them soon.

Today was the day. I went to Davis Lumber and picked up little pots of basil, parsley (curley and flat-leaf), chives, oregano, and mint; a pony pack of Blue Moon lobelia, and two 4-in. pots, one holding a salvia, the other a lavender plant, along with two bags of potting soil. The herbs (except for the mint) went into a strawberry pot I've had for years; the lobelia I stuck in the small places around said pot. The mint got its own pot; ditto the salvia and the lavender.

This doesn't sound like much to plant, and if you just think about the number of plants, it's not. But I had to empty dirt out of each pot into a big plastic tub I brought upstairs for the purpose (being upstairs has its drawbacks), mix new potting soil in with some old, refill the pots after cleaning them up, shlep unused pots to a less conspicuous spot on the deck, sweep up dirt and other various bits, move the newly filled pots to where I want them, move them again when I decide that's not the place, after all, fetch water from the kitchen sink in a gallon milk container (no hose upstairs), repot a couple of languishing succulents and hope for the best, futz with decorative fountain that seems to be clogged (probably by pine needles) and will need to be taken apart, just not today, sweep some more, haul excess dirt downstairs and dump in alley . . . well, you get the idea. Luckily, the Giants-Phillies game was on, and my portable radio had fresh batteries, so it was pleasat, if tiring, work. Would have been more pleasant if the Giants had managed to win, but so it goes.

By the time I was done, it was time to shower and get ready to go to the Woodland Chamber Singers spring concert in Woodland (it was terrific!), so there wasn't time to take any photos. But I'll do that tomorrow and post them then. Tonight I'm just uttering small prayers that it all survives.

Baseball be berry, berry good to me!

I'm easing quickly into the rhythm of spring-into-summer days. At present, I don't have a lot of freelance work, and what I do have isn't requiring a lot of time (though it will be gearing up soon). The 10 days or so of being on cat- and garden-tending for Pica and Numenius jump-started my feeling of just plain enjoying the weather and the environment around me; the landscape around their house is so expansive, the poppies and irises and all the rest so lovely, that I spent a lot of time just sitting and looking at it all.

But back to the rhythm of the day, which, I realize, is heavily influenced by baseball. I listen to Mike Kruko and/or Duane Kuiper in the morning, and all during the day, I find I'm looking forward to the evening and that day's game. When the Giants have an off day for travel, I feel a bit flat, like a little kid who knows there won't be any dessert after dinner that night. I do ride my bicycle, and I go to Lisa's twice a week to take dictation from her, and I work on this and that, but it's baseball that provides the anchor. And it is a welcome respite from presidental politics, which now give me a stomach ache. So, Go Giants!

Radiohead

I have a new radio, a Bose Wave with a CD player. I'd read a lot about them, how the quality of the sound is comparable to a large system but in a compact size. And everything they said is true. Lovely, clear sound, highs and lows. Right now I'm playing a compilation CD called "Night Tracks." It's all instrumental, some Vaughn Williams, Saint-Saens, J.S. Bach, Copland and others. The size is perfect; takes up less room than the smallish boombox I had there, and pulls in KNBR 680 and the Giants broadcasts loud and clear.

Speaking of the Giants, they won again tonight behind Jonathan Sanchez' brilliant pitching. Fun watching this team with its rookies scramble its way toward making the doomsayers eat their words. Now that the season is in full swing, I spend my evenings listening to and, now that I have cable, watching the games. I manage to have both media—radio on in the kitchen, TV in the living room, so I can hear what each of the broadcasters has to say. There is one funny thing about doing that, though; the radio play-by-play is always ahead of the TV, sometimes by just a few seconds, other times (like tonight), a whole play ahead. It's convenient, though; if I'm in the kitchen or the bedroom and hear somebody gets a hit or makes a spectacular catch, I can dash into the living room and see it as it happens in TV land. Just reinforces my belief that all electronic communication is magic.

Seder

It's Passover, and tonight I went to a seder given by my friends Ken and Karen Firestein. There were about 15 of us, and Ken led us through the prayers, songs and eating of the ritual foods (matzah, horseradish, parsley dipped in salt water) and drinking of the ritual wine (four glasses). Then we got to the dinner, itself, which was delicious (meat done by Karen, the rest of the items—salad, kugel, veggies, desserts—provided by the guests.

I met Ken sometime around 1984 or '85, when he and I both worked in the reference department of Shields Library, and we became friends soon enough. I wasn't Jewish back then, but my interest was alive and well, and when we'd go on coffee breaks together, Ken and I would often talk about Judaism. It was Ken who invited me to my first seder way back when. One of the guests tonight was Seymour Howard, professor emeritus of art, whom I also knew years ago when he'd come into the reference department and offer me sunflower seeds. Never would I have thought he and I would find ourselves seated at the same seder table. This is what happens when you get adopted into the tribe.

April morning

Irises in Pica's neighbor's garden

Through a glass, brightly; Pica and Numenius's house

April afternoon

I spent the morning out and about, dropping Pica and Numenius at the airport, then to Lisa's for our Thursday session memoir dictation; back home to take care of some e-mail business for bike club and a freelance project. By 1:30, I was ready to head out again, this time just for fun.

Stuck a Jane Smiley novel (a very old one and not one of her best) in my bag and walked downtown, the temperature just about perfect, light breeze, no chill, not hot. Lateish lunch at Burgers 'n' Brew, across from Central Park, where I sat outside in the spring air, eating slowly and reading. Was offered a refill on my diet Coke, and took it so I could keep reading. Finally stirred myself to walk to the bank to make a bike club deposit, then windowshopped along Second St—Acquarius with its crystals and incense (it always smells wonderful in there), DeLuna's, filled with bling, The Naturalist (windchimes and pretty dishes decorated with bird eggs) and then to the Avid Reader, where I bought a book of Mary Oliver's poems. On to Samira's and to the Paint Chip, then slowly home. Everyone's garden is abloom, lots of roses already and, my favorite, the bearded iris—so many colors, each so clear and delicate. Rode my bike to P & N's to feed Diego and Charlie, play with them, check on the garden, take in the sheets from the clothesline. There, too, flowers in a riot of color—bright orange poppies, deep blue ceanothus and more iris.

Years ago, I saw these lines by Gary Snyder from a poem called, I think, For the Children. I wrote them on a yellow Post-It and stuck it on my Sierra Club calendar over my desk at work, where it stayed and stayed, moving from momth to month and year to year:

Stay together

Learn the flowers

Go light.

And this evening, I read this, from Sometimes, by Mary Oliver:

Instructions for living a life:

Pay attention.

Be astonished.

Tell about it.

I'm looking for another Post-It note.

Let's get organized! Or not . . .

I got a new Levenger catalog in the mail today with a cover blurb touting "60 NEW Organizing Solutions." How, I wondered, could there be 60 new organizing solutions in there? So I checked, but the only "new" things seem to be the colors stuff comes in; no miraculous gizmos or methods for making one's life simpler or less cluttered. Just the opposite. Levenger is big on the 3x5 card method for taking notes, and for a mere $138, you can purchase a letter-size 3x5 Zip Action Folio (junior size, $98; $6 extra for monogram, $12 if you want your whole name). This thing is filled with card-sized pockets that hold 3x5 cards, which, once this treasure is in your hands, will be jotted on and arranged thus and so, and perhaps so and thus.

Just thinking about this kind of thing makes me want to lie down in a dim room with a lavender-scented hankie. I used to try to devise systems to keep track of stuff, but none of the Big Guns (Franklin, DayTimer, DayRunner, or Levenger) could overcome my natural inertia. In the ancient past, when I worked in the Reference Dept. of Shields Library, before all of us got so bloody busy that we needed more stuff to help us keep track of our stuff, I kept a steno notebook that I'd write in. Every day, I wrote the date, then whatever I needed to remember or keep track of got written down. Didn't matter where I started on the page, and when the book got filled up on one side, I flipped it over and started on the back side. The cover got the start and end dates. Worked fine, best system I ever had, and cheap cheap cheap.

We are the champions

The Sacramento RiverCats won the 2007 Triple A championship. Thanks to Gishi, we have T-shirts to commemorate the occasion, and we wore them to our first game of the 2008 season Saturday evening . . .
Our team: Bill "Dinger Dog" Sbarra, Susan "Put Me In, Coach!" Gishi, Babz "Duck and Cover" Anderson, and Liese "BatBabe" Schadt.

It was a perfect night for baseball—mild, T-shirt weather, good crowd, fireworks at the end of the game, even the dancing usher is back, now appearing as the dancing vendor—rendering the Cats loss to the Las Vegas 51s less painful. Also pain-reducing was getting to see a couple of former Giants, left fielder Todd Linden (who hit a home run) and catcher Justin Knoedler (whom we met a few years ago when we were all in Scottsdale for Giants' Spring Training).

Baseball . . . it's what's for summer.

Found it!

If you've been reading this blog for a few months, you may remember Gap in the Record, about my misplaced (and feared lost) notebook. I couldn't imagine that I'd thrown it out, but I'd looked everywhere and no luck. Just now I was looking through a stack of clippings and other assorted bits in the "things I'm saving to deal with later" basket, and there it was, stuck amongst the stuff. None of the writing in it is mission critical, mostly just notes to myself, quotes I want to remember, book titles I jotted down at the bookstore so I could remember them later when I went to the libarary, that sort of thing; even a grocery list or two. And I'm sure I would have lived just fine for the rest of my days if it had never turned up. But I hadn't forgotten about it, there was that gap, and now it's been filled. Quite made my day.

Ant-ics

I've heard from the Bohart. Monday, Thursday and their bretheren (sisteren?) are camponutus essegi, better known as carpenter ants. Here's what Steve Heydon at the Bohart had to say about them:

"Carpenter ants are found in houses and can be a pest since they hollow out wood to make themselves a home. You should do your best to determine if the ants are coming in from the inside or if they are living in your house since they can nest either place. When you look outside, you need to check dead wood, stacked boards, firewood, etc. Going around with a flashlight in the early part of the night might help. Many ants are nocturnal."

So far, I haven't done any flashlight hunts. But given their random and singular appearance in my house, and then only on my computer table, I have a feeling that these babies may be strays from the trees around my house, lost and trying to find their way home (see the link above). (Another one showed up last evening, again as I was sitting here typing away; I saw not from whence it came.)

So I've satisfied my curiosity, but I'm kind of let down. I think I liked it better when Monday and Thursday didn't have any other name. I'll have to be content now with the mystery of just how the heck they manage to appear. My landlord may be less thrilled with the whole thing, but I guess I should inform him . . .

The Masters

A minor surgical procedure early today left me with some residual mental spaciness. So, what better fit for a slightly dulled brain than daytime TV? Channel surfing, I found the live broadcast of the Masters Tournament from Augusta and have been watching it for the past 90 or so minutes.

Golf was a big presence in my growing-up life. My father was an accomplished amateur golfer who won many tournaments and, until his stroke at age 51, played whenever he got the chance. Neither I nor my sister took to the game (a deep disappointment for him, I know), but we learned a lot just by proximity, and names like Sam Snead, Ben Hogan, and Babe Zaharias were as familiar to me as the characters in my favorite books.

I don't follow golf much any more (I prefer baseball, another of my father's favorite sports and one I could participate in with him, as we were both spectators), but watching the Masters was a treat. The course, itself, is beautiful—lush, green, azaleas blooming, so, well, Southern—but it is diabolically wicked. Seeing the way the greens break, the position of the bunkers, the needle-thin fairways on some holes reminded me of nothing so much as some miniature golf courses I've hacked around; the ball never, ever goes where you want it to or where you think it should.

Despite that, a couple dozen or so players are under par following today's second round of play, about three times as many as were in that spot in 2007. The big surprise seems to be Tiger Woods' poor showing; he was even par until the 18th, when, executing a difficult shot out of the trees onto the green, he then sank his putt for a birdie. Brent Snedeker, on the other hand, is the current leader at 7 under par. But anything can happen; winds up to 25 mph are forecast for Sunday's final round.

Take me out to the ball game

Today was Opening Day at AT&T Park: Giants vs. the San Diego Padres. Gishi, Liese, Wayne and I sat in the bleachers, drank a couple of beers, ate Crazy Crab sandwiches, peanuts and sunflower seeds and had a wonderful time. Sun was shining, the ball yard and the bay sparkled, the crowd was happy, Matt Cain and Greg Maddux were dueling on the mound, and all was right with the world.


The Giants lost, 8-4, but this team in this season being what it is, we didn't expect to win, really. And truly, we didn't care; just being out there amongst all the other Giants fans in their orange and black, cheering each time one of our guys did something hopeful, chanting "Let's go, GI-ants!" and stomping our feet to encourage the team, was plenty satisfying.

And for me, a bonus: a new Giants jacket!

Right after this picture was snapped, Giants broadcaster Mike Krukow walked past us. Liese blew him a kiss, I shouted "We love you, Mike!" and he blew us a kiss right back. If we couldn't get a win, a day at the game with friends, a new jacket, and Mike Krukow was consolation a-plenty.

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.