The road north

In mid-January I began working three mornings a week in Woodland. It's only 13 miles from my house, but the drive has been possibly the job's best feature. Three miles north, five miles west, then north again, past fields and orchards that every day look different than the day before. Sometimes the difference is big (one morning, bare ground, the next day thousands of tomato plants have appeared, seemingly sprouted overnight but actually having been unpacked from the large, white boxes that had been sitting in that field); other times, what I notice is just that a particular field is being irrigated that morning. In January, an entire orchard went in. I noticed the field because it was filled with low, regularly spaced mounds which one day sprouted white tubes, acres and acres of them, so uniformly set that it reminded me of Arlington National Cemetery. There were sticks in those tubes, and as the weeks have passed, those sticks have gotten taller and sprouted leaves. The two established orchards across the road from one another have gone from winter-bareness to pink blossoms to full leaf. The earth beneath the orchard on the east side of the road is clean, brown soil, not a weed or any other vegation to be seen. The orchard on the west, though, has grass and other green plants growing under the trees. Is one an organic orchard, I wonder? Or is it just the personal preference of the orchardists? (is that a word, orchardists?)

Then there are the mountains to the west, always different depending on whether the light on any given day is harsh or mellow, sharp and clear or hazy with windborne dust. I've seen some spectacularly beautiful skies on days when we've had rain showers; the rain stops falling but the clouds stay around, sailing through the vast expanse of Yolo County blue. Hawks, sometimes two or three a morning, each sitting atop his own utility pole. 'Good hunting!" I say to him, "mazel tov!"

When the wind is at its fiercent, blowing from the north, it's difficult to keep the car at 55 mph, it's so strong. And now that it's spring and planting season, no day goes by without encountering a piece of exotic farm equipment trundling up the road. I have no idea what their functions are.

City streets are dynamic with traffic, people, and the cacaphony they create; country roads are quieter but no less dynamic than their city cousins. Friday was my last day at that Woodland job; I shall miss the drive the most.

Rogers & Hammerstein

Went to the Mondavi last night  with Pica to see the UC Davis production of Rogers and Hammerstein's Oklahoma! I saw the movie years ago but had never seen it on stage, and this staging was a good one, with plenty of really excellent dancing and mostly fine singing voices, especially from the guy who played Curly. Watching good dancers always thrills me; I have to restrain myself from bouncing up and down in my seat. In my "yout'" I wanted to be a dancer, but alas, dancing lessons weren't in the financial picture, so despite my best efforts to teach myself ballet from library books and pretending to tap dance, that fantasy never materialized. Still, it's a thrill to watch. And any time I hear a Rogers and Hammerstein score, I remember my high-school friend Janie, who had all the LP recordings of all their musicals—Carousel, Flower Drum Song, South Pacific, and of course Oklahoma! I'd go over to her house and we'd sit in her room and play those records; I knew all the words then, and mostly still do.

It's here! It's here!

The Perfect Chair has arrived! Not even a month since I ordered it, and it's here in my living room, looking as handsome as I'd hoped and sitting just as comfortably as I remembered. It was a bit of a tussle getting up my stairs, especially since Davis Ace sent only one delivery guy (I'd told them emphatically and repeatedly that they'd need two people to do the job), but between the valiant Ed and the determined me, we got it up here. Lucky Ed got double the tip he would have received if he'd brought a buddy, so I think he was happy.

And heeeeere it is!

Baseball is back

The Earth has righted itself on its axis once again with the 2009 baseball season well and truly launched with a grand Opening Day game at AT&T Park and a win for the Giants, who scored 10 runs to the Brewers' 6. The weather forecast was dire—rain, thunderstorms, possibly even hail—and indeed, it rained on our way down to SF, and poured on our way home. But not a drop fell during the game. Rather, we were blessed with beautiful clouds mixed with blue skies and almost no wind, making our bleacher seats very pleasant. The fans were happy, the beer and cha-cha bowl were delicious, and a good time was had by all (except possibly by the Brewers).

The day in pictures . . .

I got a Matt Cain bobblehead in my Mystery Grab Bag!

These two know how to show their love.

The four fan-atics

These guys call themselves the Rat Pack and sang "Take Me Out to the Ballgame" during the 7th inning stretch. The one portraying Dino was truly bizarre.

Matty's got his game face on.

March Fools' Tour

Back home from a wonderful, four-plus days of bicycling through Yolo, Solano, Napa, Sonoma and Marin counties, with a brief stay in the city and county of San Francisco last night and this morning before heading home via ferry and Amtrak. The riding was tough, particularly the first two days as we fought a vicious north wind—imagine climbing a steep and endless hill, mile after mile after mile, and you'll have a vague inkling—but by Day 3 we had a tailwind as we rode southwest from Cloverdale toward Bodega Bay, and the climbing along the coast from Bodega to SF was made a lot easier by that same wind. All told, I rode 268 miles; not bad, if I do say so, myself.

It was a terrific trip, with great accommodations, excellent food, congenial companions and outstanding scenery. The wildflowers were at their peak, and now that I have some distance between me and those horrific windy days, all I really recall is how beautiful the route was. Riding amesia: Like giving birth, once it's over, the pain is forgotten as you contemplate the incredibly wonderful outcome. Lifted my spirits immeasurably.

Lupine, Suisun Valley Road, Solano County

March 30, 2009

Behold, the perfect chair

A year or so ago, I test-drove The Perfect Chair at Davis Lumber (aka Davis Ace). It fit me exactly, it glided and swiveled and reclined, and one of its best features was that the back was high enough to keep my head from whiplashing if—make that when—I fell asleep reading. It wasn't cheap, though, and I didn't have the money to buy it. But every time I went into the store, I sat in it again, even showed it to my sister when she was here last year; she concurred that it was, indeed, The Perfect Chair. I have wanted a good reading chair for years. And I vowed that if I ever could afford it, I would order it.

Today, thanks to a story I wrote for UC Davis Magazine, I went to Davis Lumber, plunked down $614.16, and purchased The Perfect Chair. Here's the fabric:
It'll be ready in 5 or 6 weeks, according to Kyle, the very helpful guy at Davis Lumber, who put up with my hovering over the order form to make sure he got it right. I will probably have to rearrange my living room once it arrives. I can't wait.

Kosher ham

The Purim spiel was performed last night, and it was a hoot and a half. Purim commemorates the rescue of the Jews from being annihilated by Haman, the right-hand man (think Dick Cheney) of Ahasuerus, king of Persia, back, oh, a really long time ago. The entire story is recounted in the Book of Esther, which is read in its entirety from a scroll (a megillah) on the 14th day of the Jewish month of Adar. (And now you know where the expression "the whole megillah" comes from.) It's a very festive holiday; people dress up in costume or wear silly hats, and every time Haman's name is mentioned, it's greeted with boos and twirling "groggers," noisemakers that make a "rrrr-rrr-rrr" sound.

Until this year, the only Purim spiels I'd seen were performed by our rabbi with the aid of kids in the congregation—cute, and always corny (the rabbi being an inveterate punster) but mostly for the kids. Not this time. We now have a cantor, and he directed this year's production of The Megillah According to the Beatles—the story of Esther set to tunes from the Sgt. Pepper's album.

I wish I had photos to post here, but I didn't think to take my camera along, and I don't know if anybody in the cast got any pictures taken, either. Oh well; suffice it to say I made a lovely ’60-style serving girl and, following a quick change into black pants, an overlarge dark gray suit jacket, brown shirt, red tie, black hat and black gloves, I made a downright intimidating-looking Mafia hit man, especially if you saw that hammer in my hands. Then it was back to the serving-girl outfit.

I never used to think of myself as someone who enjoys performing, but I always surprise myself with how much I like getting up on stage and hamming it up, particularly in these sorts of "silly" things, where exaggeration is part of the whole idea and it's done before a sympathetic audience who can scarcely complain, particularly as they didn't pay any admission and didn't volunteer, themselves. How I'd be in a "real" play is a whole other question. But I did have a grand time last night.

Tush training

Getting back into riding shape involves more than building up endurance in my legs and hands and arms and lungs. The part that's in contact with the saddle also gets soft with disuse and requires toughening up. Bag Balm* helps. A lot.

*Bag Balm: A thick, viscous ointment which comes in a square, green tin and whose primary ingredient is essentially Vaseline. It's manufactured by the Dairy Association Co., Inc. (since 1899!), in Lyndonville, Vt., to "help keep dairy cows from becoming chapped from the harsh Vermont environment." The instructions read, in part: "After each milking, apply thoroughly and allow coating to remain on surface." It's equally good as a tush protectant. Ask any long-distance cyclist.

Doin' the overcommitment tango

I've got way too much to do for too many projects. I'd like to say I don't know how I manage to find myself in this predicament, but it happens too often for me to play the innocent. I don't think ahead, I don't say "no" often enough, and I fail to ask for details when someone says, "Oh, this won't take a lot of your time" or "This will be fun!" Uh-huh.

So I said yes to being in the Purim spiel. Fun, sure, but I should have considered I'd need to go to rehearsals as well as show up for the performance. And nobody mentioned the need for getting costume and props together until after I'd agreed to be a serving girl/assassin/woman in the crowd, and that I had to write my lines on 3x5 cards because it's likely I won't remember them so need something to prompt me besides an 8-1/2x11 script. The show is this Saturday evening, and though it is, indeed, fun (most of the time), I'll be glad when it's over, and I can get on with all the other stuff I've committed to, like getting all the Davis Double Century registration information up on the Web site so riders can actually sign up, working with the bike club's Web guy on the site's redesign, working three mornings a week, preparing my friend Lisa's manuscript for self-publishing, and oh yeah, getting on my bicycle and riding so I can make that 500-miles-in-March goal. This doesn't even take into account errands, laundry, getting my bike repaired, all the usual "gotta-get-those-things-done-soon" stuff.

I realize that for many people (you know who you are, Pica), this list will seem paltry. But the fact remains that I really don't like having so many things to do. Or, rather, I do like having lots of things to do, but I don't want any of them to be tied to specific times, dates and places. Having something on the calendar that requires my presence makes me nervous and looking for a way to get out of it. Most of the time, though, I can't bow out gracefully, so I go reluctantly, and then have a perfectly fine time once I'm there. So it's not the thing, itself, that I dislike, just that it's scheduled. Ad hoc is my friend.

Après moi, le déluge

I was awake and up at 5 a.m., and by 7, it wasn't raining. So, since I'm behind on my daily quota of miles (a paltry total of 3 since March 1), I decided to head out for a quick 15 or so on the Tour de Trash. Wind from the south was muscular, and the sky had plenty of clouds, but nothing dire-looking, so riding north up to Rd. 29 was a literal breeze. A bit more strenuous once I turned east on the dump road, but the sun was shining through the clouds ahead of me, and I stopped several times to watch a couple of raptors hanging around the slough (a kite, I think, and what I hoped was an osprey but was probably just a redtail). Discussed the news of the day with a couple of young bovines . . .


and goggled at the swarm of gulls roiling above the landfill, giving it the appearance of an enormous disturbed anthill.


Then I looked in my rearview mirror . . .


OMG! Quick! Ride! Ride fast! You're still 7 miles from home!

I almost made it. If I lived east of the dump instead of west, I might have outrun it, but as I had to ride into that dark maw, I started getting wet about 2 miles from home. Luckily, the real downpour didn't start until I was safely in the house. (I tried to get a picture of that, too, but it's hard to take a photo of rain.) (It's pouring again—hard— as I write this. 9 hours later.) So I got my 14 miles, getting only a little wet, and even survived being chased by a couple of dogs—naturally, I was riding into the teeth of the wind at that point and wasn't able to outrun the black one, who nipped my right shoe befoe heading back to his lair. I really do not like dogs.

Oh, and somewhere out there on the road, my cyclometer turned over 7,000 miles. I was so focused on getting home, I didn't even notice and so missed the fist-pumping opportunity.

It is dumping out there. Mr. Noah, call your office . . .

Marching on

March means March Madness—not the NCAA basketball kind, the bicycling kind, in which Davis Bike Club members pledge to ride a whole lot of miles in one month, the total miles ridden translating into a penny per mile to purchase helmets for kids whose families don't have the money to buy them themselves. This year, I expect there will be more kids needing them.

In any event, I've committed to ride 500 miles this March. Seeing as how I've been on my road bike exactly four times since the beginning of 2009, racking up a whopping 83 miles in toto, I will be challenged to make it. As incentive, I've signed up (and paid for. so I can't back out) a four-day tour beginning Sunday, the 29th. There will be hills, so I'll have to train. Hope the rain stops pretty soon, otherwise I could be in the same fix these guys were in a couple of weeks ago . . .

Amgen Tour of California riders crossing Stevenson's Bridge in the rain
Feb. 15, 2009

Rude awakening

The first thought that entered my head when I woke up on this Day 2 of Barack Obama's presidency was, what if he can't do it? What if, despite his best and sincerest efforts, he is too young, too inexperienced, the problems—and the world—too big and complex? This, of course, is what I would be feeling were I were the one who had found herself elected President of these United States, stepping into the Oval Office and thinking, oh my God, what the hell am I doing here? (Come to think of it, this is similar to what I was feeling the day after I got married—the wedding was fun and kind of a fairy tale-come-true thing, but it didn't take long for the finality of the whole business to sink in in a decidedly uneasy way.)

I didn't invite that thought into my head this morning, but it was there, and it hung around for a bit after I first got up and got the coffee started. Then I listened to NPR and heard that the President had already begun working on the country's business, getting right to it in his quiet, smart way, and I knew he, and we, were going to be OK. Yes, we will.

N.B.: Alison gently reminded me that Aretha Franklin sang "America" (aka, "My Country 'Tis of Thee") at the Inauguration, not, as I said in yesterday's post, the National Anthem. I stand corrected, and plead special leniency, as I think "America" would make a fine replacement for our current anthem, almost as good as my first choice, "America the Beautiful." 

What a day!

And now, we have a new President! Barack Hussein Obama was inaugurated this morning before about 2 million joyous Americans who filled the D.C. Mall, and 11 more who filled my living room, sitting on the couch, on dining chairs and folding chairs, eating lox and bagels, English muffins, and toaster waffles, watching MSNBC and hanging on to every word of the ceremony.

When the Oath of Office had been administered (John Roberts managing to scramble it) and nevertheless gracefully taken, we raised our glasses of Champagne in a rousing toast to our new President. Some of us cried buckets as Aretha Franklin began to sing our National Anthem. We sang along with her! We cheered! We talked! We laughed! We said a few less-than-complimentary words about the 43rd President as he—at last!—left the building, decided that seeing his Vice President being wheeled away in a wheelchair couldn't have been better scripted, and were grateful beyond words to see the back of them.

And once again, I was struck by the elegance of our system of government, by the wisdom of the Framers, who crafted a Constitution that allows such an orderly transfer of power from one leader to the next. No coup, no disruption, no chaos. We have a new Chief of State, a new Commander-in-Chief, we changed from a Republican to a Democratic President, and yet after all that, I could leave my house to walk downtown, and everything was peaceful and orderly, people riding their bicycles, driving their cars, shopping, eating, going about their business as usual. I am so lucky, and so grateful, to be an American. What a country . . . and what a wonderful new President we have been blessed to elect. Mazel tov, Barack!

The E Street Inaugural Ball

(Standing) Phil, Joseph, Milt, Allan
(Seated) Dorothy, Gishi, Lorna, Stacy, Alison, Robin

Inauguration eve

Nine more hours, and we'll have a new President. I'm filled with anticipation, delight, excitement, gratitude, joy, thanksgiving . . . and a small frisson of apprehension. My prayer tonight, as it's been every night since Election Night: Baruch haShem, please keep him, and us, safe. And let tomorrow bring a new day of hope.

I am not making this up

According to a story in yesterday's New York Times, President Bush's stand-in at Sunday's Inauguration rehearsal was Army Sgt. Bruce Cobbeldick. This cannot be mere happenstance. 

Julie

The headline in today's Davis Enterprise read, "Farewell, Julie," over a 1999 photo of six mayors of Davis, Julie Partansky in the foreground. "Oh," I thought, "Julie's leaving Davis; that's a surprise." Then I read the story's subhead: "Former Mayor Partansky, a seminal figure in Davis politics, dies at 61." Of stage 4 lung cancer, diagnosed just five weeks ago.

Fey, funny, talented, dedicated Julie. For me, she occupied that more than a casual acquaintance, less than a friend place, our circles overlapping owing mostly to our mutual connections to others: Davis' progressive, lefty politics, or sometimes at the synagogue. I didn't see her often, but when we'd encounter one another at the Co-op, or downtown someplace, or at the Farmers Market, we'd always say hello and chat for just a brief moment. She had the sweetest smile.

Julie was ridiculed, maligned, dismissed by many in our town, but her seemingly whimsical or impractical ideas have been shown to make perfect sense: a dark-sky ordinance to keep light pollution from blotting out the stars; riding our bicycles instead of driving. Her first foray into the public eye came because she protested the city's plan to pave the alleyways that bisect several blocks here in my Old North Davis neighborhood. "We like our alleys," Julie said. "We have flowers planted there, and vegetables. Leave them alone." She won that battle, keeping the alley behind my house from becoming a shortcut speedway for cars. It was the alleys that launched her campaign for City Council.

She didn't have pots of money, she didn't have influential connections, she wasn't a career politician, using her city council seat as a launching pad to bigger and better things. She just loved this town, cared about its future, could see where rampant growth would take it, and in her own quiet, determined way, she kept the council, and us, focused on what mattered. I never heard her be mean. She just knew what was right.

So long, Julie; you left us way too soon.

Changing the decor

The West Sacramento office of Social Security has two photos on the wall, one on either side of the agency logo. The one to the left is of George W. Bush, the other is of Dick Cheney. Both of them look impossibly, improbably young, W. the more so, who looks like the frat boy he was (in some ways, still is; Cheney not so, but the trademark smirk is there, front and center.

I'd already noticed in recent days, seeing Bush on TV, how much he's aged in the past eight years; not just looking older but tireder, worn out. And seeing him and Barack standing next to one another in the Oval Office, along with the three ex-presidents, revealed again, in high relief, Obama's youthful vigor compared to the rest. But it makes me wonder . . . what will he look like when four years have gone by . . . or eight?

Regardless, it'll sure be nice to have some new photos up on the walls of federal offices. Ten more days . . .

Christmas, and a birthday

My son and his family being off to Santa Fe for the holiday to celebrate Fred and Jen's 10th anniversary, I spent Christmas Eve and Christmas Day with my friend Dorothy in Santa Cruz, at the home of Dorothy's ex-husband's third wife, Greta (and no, I'm not going to elaborate on this), along with Greta's daughter, Alison, Dorothy's son and d-in-law and granddaughters, and a couple of other folks related distantly and not-so. And although I had no family there, myself, I couldn't have felt more at home nor had a nicer time. Weather was cold and unsettled, shifting from rain to bright sun and back again, but inside the house it was warm and cozy, with lots of good food and conversation. Christmas Eve dinner was salmon; Christmas Day, we had a pork tenderloin. Unfortunately, I forgot to bring along my camera on Christmas Eve, but here's Christmas . . .

Pork tenderloin, with fennel and fuyu persimmons

The really beautiful dinner table

Just before we sat down to dinner, we lit the menorah for the fifth night of Hanukkah . . .


Today, December 30, would have been my son John's 45th birthday. No way to know what he would have been like had he lived, but I'm betting by now his hair would be gray, just like his father's, grandfather's and uncle's was at that age. Happy birthday, son; you're always in my heart.

Stormy Sunday

First real winter weather came in this morning; not a hard rain, but kept up all day, and cold, much colder than it's been. A good day to stay inside, which is exactly what I did, bundled up in two sweaters, tights and wooly sox to stay warm while I read the paper. All day long. It was a treat I don't usually allow myself, and it felt just fine.

I did venture out this evening, though, to a gathering instigated by the Obama campaign folks and organized by a woman here in Davis. About 20 or so of us met at her home in North Davis to discuss how we want to help the President-Elect both now and after January 20. After offering information on who we might know in national and/or local politics and in media (the idea being to compile a source list of influential contacts that may be helpful in moving Obama's agenda forward), we listed the issues we think deserve attention by the new administration. It was a long list, headed by the Iraq war and continuing on through health care, closing Guantanamo, education, the economy, food policy, and national service. There were more, and though all are important, it seemed pretty clear to us that if we can stop spending $10 billion a month in Iraq and get the economic recovery program jump-started, there might just possibly be some money for the rest of the stuff to happen.

It was a smart, involved group; many of them had been quite active in the campaign and a number of them are folks who have been rubbing elbows with local pols for a long time. Despite having lived in Davis for more than 30 years and being active in a couple of city council and ballot issue campaigns, I've never been among the politcos here in town. It's never interested me much to be that "connected." But it's good that some people are, I guess. Anyway, this particular meeting this evening was one of 4,000 taking place all around the country this weekend, a start by Obama to fulfill his commitment to involve us, the citizens, in working for change. It's been a long time since a president asked us to do anything other than shop, so this is both an opportunity and a challenge. Obama is right in saying he can't do it alone. If it's change I want, I need to help make it happen.

Moonshine

After what has felt like weeks and weeks of foggy and overcast days, with only moments of soon-disappearing sunshine, today began clear and stayed clear. All day long. Bright blue sky. Crisp air. And topping it off, the celestial cherry on the cake, an almost-full, almost-Winter Solstice moonrise.

Going green in flames

Coming home from Woodland on Hwy 113 yesterday afternoon, a pale green Prius approached me from behind. "Nice color," I thought, putting the mottled-looking hood down to my less-than-clean rear window. Then the Prius passed me and I saw the real reason for the odd-looking paint. Flames, gold ones, painted on the hood and front fenders.

Prius as hot stock car—Detroit, are you listening?

Bias

My cousin sent me a good piece from the Los Angeles Times on confirmation bias, which you can read here. I've been aware of confirmation bias in myself (one of the perils of living in Davis, where "everybody" is a Democrat). And I've made vows to myself to read opposing (i.e., Republican) opinion and viewpoints, but so far, the only opposition voice I can stomach is David Brooks. Will it be different once He Who Regrettably Is Still President is finally gone and Obama is in the White House? And if so, will it be because my President is a pragmatist who wants diverse opinion or because at last MY guy is in charge and I can be charitable toward those who are no longer running things?

Thanksgiving weekend recap

As promised, photos and notes from Thanksgiving Day, plus the rest of the weekend . . .

The pre-dinner "hike" (a walk, really):
Despite the cloudy, overcast day, lots of other people besides Susan and me thought this was a good idea, but it wasn't anywhere near as crowded as Disneyland, and everyone seemed to be having a lovely day—grandparents, parents, kids, dogs, boyfriends and girlfriends—and though the vistas were limited, it was still a beautiful walk, especially the eucalyptus, with their peeling bark . . .
I turned around at the 2-mile marker, knowing I would have done 4 miles by the time I got back to the car and happy to have made it that distance despite the creaky hip and only a bit of limping . . .
Susan is a much stronger/faster hiker than I, so when I turned around she sprinted on up the trail a bit farther to check out whether the Nike missile site was still there (the missile site being the reason for this paved "trail" (a road, really). She didn't find it, but only because she'd miscalculated our location and the thing was much farther on. Here's Susan; it's astonishing how accomplished she is despite having no hands . . . ;-)

So, back to the car and on to Marilyn's, who is Susan's stepmother. Her live-in helper, CeeCee, and CeeCee's neice, Olla, were joining us for dinner, but first we had wine and a delicious crab mold made by Marilyn. Alas, no photo of the crab mold and its accompanying Ritz crackers, but here are CeeCee, Susan and Olla . . .

and Susan and Marilyn . . .
Time to go to dinner, which, as has become tradition, was at Hs Lordship's, a restaurant on the Berkeley marina.
(N.B.: This is pronounced "His Lordship's" even though there is no "i" in the "Hs"; note also the absence of an apostrophe in "Lordship's." I have no idea what these people were thinking.)

This is a buffet-style place, with just about every style of cuisine you might fancy: freshly made sushi, omelettes, cracked crab, peel-and-eat shrimp (my personal favorite), innumerable salads, plus the traditional roast turkey, roast beef and ham and the not-so-traditional catfish and shrimp in a tomato-y sauce (yummy), and of course mashed potatoes, sweet potatoes, mixed steam veg, stuffing, gravy . . . and then there's dessert, again ranging from the traditional pie, cake, bread pudding, flan, to the odd (individually packaged Rice Krispy Treats—a perennial kid favorite). But the food's decent, and there's certainly plenty of it. We had a table next to a window facing out across the bay toward the City, where we could watch the light change on the water. The clouds didn't obscure any of the views, and it was a lovely evening.

Looking west, Golden Gate Bridge across the bay

San Francisco, Thanksgiving evening

As for the rest of the weekend, did a couple of bike rides, walked in the Arboretum, and saw the latest James Bond movie, Quantum of Solace, which was predictable, but who cares—it was fun, and you always know that Bond will come out OK in the end. I think I like Daniel Craig's Bond best of all the ones who've played the role; he's got a less-than-perfect face, which I find interesting. Two surprises from this one, first, none of the usual-issue "gadgets" that ordinarily are in evidence, and (best for me) some of it filmed in Siena, in the piazza. A treat to see it—it was one of my favorite cities when we did the bike tour in 2006. Ciao!

Thanks, giving of

A good Thanksgiving Day, with much to be thankful for. Pictures and tales of my day will appear tomorrow, as I'm too sleepy to write or fiddle with pix tonight. So, taking the easy way out, I give you Gail Collins, in today's New York Times. Count your blessings, as we have many.

A day in the hills

Dorothy and I drove to Apple Hill this past Tuesday, Veterans' Day. In years past, she and a few othr friends who had that day off did an annual bike ride in those hills. Time has taken some of the friends, and Dorothy doesn't ride much these days, so we drive up, wander through the scenery, eat apple crisp and finally buy some apples before heading back down the hill.

We stayed off the main road for quite a while, so there was little traffic, and we could just putt-putt along and look at the lovely trees.



The day was overcast, with once or twice a hint that it might rain (though it never did). But it was warm, and the leaves were turning yellow and gold, the apple crisp (a huge serving) was delicious, and I found some Braeburn apples at a bargain price.


Ended the day with split pea soup, Waldorf salad and corn muffins at Dorothy's, with apple pie for dessert.

Confession

It's happened. I'm glued to the television. From being a person who watched TV rarely (a baseball game, maybe, if it happend to be on broadcast TV, and sometimes the Nightly News on PBS), I'm now an MSNBC groupie—Keith Olberman, Chris Matthews, Rachel Maddow—plus a daily dose of Jon Stewart and Stephen Colbert. And Jim Lehrer is still at the top of the list.

I got cable to watch baseball and in this election year I figured it would be fun to have some of the all-news, all-the-time channels. Well, baseball is over, but the election and its aftermath are keeping me tuned in, turned on, and dropped onto the couch. I expect it won't let up much until after January 20. Good thing it's getting to be less-favorable cycling weather.

Yes we can

Oh, yes . . . we can!

President-elect Barack Obama
Vice President-elect Joe Biden
November 4, 2008

The cookie vote

This e-mail came this morning from my cousin Joe, a self-described "born again Democrat" who lives in Torrance, in Southern California. On this eve of what is, beyond question and for so many, many reasons, the most significant election of my life, it's a good note on which to head into tomorrow.

"The good old Torrance Bakery has been taking a cookie poll (instead of a straw poll, a much more accurate poll because people prefer cookies to straw 10 to 1) and at last count Senator Obama is leading Senator McCain 5732 to 5213. Very encouraging for Senator Obama given that Torrance tends to Republican. I know that the Obama/Biden camp is following this poll very closely."

Live your values. Love your country. Vote.

D-Day minus one

Went up to Dem HQ yesterday morning around 11, figuring I'd spend an hour or two phoning voters, then go do some grocery shopping, come home, make some soup, finish reading the Sunday papers, maybe even get some real work done on transcribing those interview tapes that are sitting there. Some seven hours later, I finally got home. No groceries bought, no soup made, no tapes transcribed, but a whole lot of calls made to voters in Kenosha, Wisconsin, and pages and pages of what we callers learned entered into the Wisconsin Democratic Party's voter info database.

The office was jammed with volunteers, people at phones in various nooks and crannies, all with their lists, all asking, "Have you voted yet? Are you going to vote? May I ask if you're supporting Sen. Obama? Do you know where your polling place is? Do you need a ride to the polls?" When I went outside to take a break, I discovered there were callers out there, too, sitting on the curb, or on a folding chair, cell phone in one hand, the list in the other.

Most of the numbers called don't reach a live person, but we reach some. I talked to about 10 people, and was lucky—they were all voting for Barack, and quite a few said they, themselves, were volunteers for the campaign, along with their husbands, kids, maybe even their pets.

I've mentioned this before, I think, but for me, the best thing about doing this calling and volunteering is the connection I feel with all those other people, both here where I live and all across the country, who care as much as I do about our country, feel dismay at how terribly we've been governed these past eight years, and who are working so hard, putting in so many hours, to change our direction. I've talked to people in North Carolina, in Florida, in Colorado, in Michigan, in Washington, in Wisconsin, and worked alongside old friends (and now some new ones) here in Davis. There is strength—and reassurance—in numbers. One more day.

Rainy Saturday

It's rained most of the day and into the evening, at times coming down hard for several minutes at a time. It was a good day to do nothing at all, and that's pretty much what I did. Nothing "productive," that is, unless you count as productive the thoroughly enjoyable two-plus hour chinwag Susan, Alison and I had this morning at Crepeville, sitting at a back table eating scrambled eggs, drinking tea and coffee, and talking politics. We never seem to run out of fodder on that topic, each of us immersed, saturated, obsessed, and anxious.

For an hour or so this evening, I watched MSNBC's Chris Matthews and Keith Olberman's recapitulations of this long, long, campaign season and once again found myself becoming emotional watching clips of Barack Obama's steady progress toward Nov. 4. There are so many of us who want this man as our president so deeply, so desperately. I've already cast my ballot, so now I wait, along with everyone else, for Tuesday.

Possessed

Election Day is now just four days away. And not a moment too soon. Unless, of course, it is too soon, and Barack Obama needs still more time to convince the majority of the American people that he's their best, really their only, hope to start turning this oil-tanker ship of state in another direction. There isn't any more time left, though; and if people haven't gotten the message, his message, by now, I don't think they will. I'm trying to remain positive and hopeful, trying not to worry, not to think what it would mean if he loses. But it's almost impossible. No matter what the polls say, or the talking TV heads, or the New York Times, the Washington Post, hell, the Davis Enterprise—I've been around the political campaign/election day block a few times, myself (most of us over the age of 40 have been similarly), and I know all too well that Charlie Brown-Lucy-and-the-football syndrome—every time, Lucy convinces Charlie Brown that this time, she'll keep the football right where he can kick it, and every time, just as he swings his foot forward, she snatches it away and he falls flat. So, I worry, read the paper, listen to NPR, worry, talk to my friends, fret, watch Jon Stewart, worry some more.

It's the voting that will determine the outcome, of course. All of our votes, whether cast by mail, or in an early-voting polling place, or on Tuesday. Barack Obama has done all he can, and he'll continue to campaign right up until the last possible minute. But, come Tuesday, when he enters the voting booth and marks his ballot, he, like all the rest of us, gets one vote. Just one. It gets counted along with all the rest of the one votes, and, God willing, there will be enough ballots marked with "Obama/Biden" to push him over the top. But, until that's a certainty, I'll worry.

********

Postscript: Tony Hillerman died this past Sunday. His mystery novels introduced me to the Navajo people and their culture; his Navajo Tribal Police officers, Lt. Joe Leaphorn and Sgt. Jim Chee, were as interesting as the plots of the stories, themselves, and they grew as people with each succeeding title. I don't recall exactly when I read my first Hillerman, but it must have been in the late 1980s, and by the time my friend Robin and I took our epic three-week car camping trip to the Four Corners region in fall 1991, I was eager to see the territory and its people that Hillerman's stories had described. When, sitting in a little cafe in Tuba City, eating a Navajo taco, a Navajo Tribal Police vehicle pulled up outside and two uniformed officers came in, I was beside myself with glee. So thank you, Tony Hillerman; I'll miss you.

Winter ball

The fifth game of the World Series is currently under way in Philadelphia. It's 40 degrees and dropping, the wind is blowing about 20 mph, and oh yes, it's now started to rain.

This is the World Series, people. It's the culmination of 160 regular-season games played IN THE SUMMERTIME. Baseball is a summer sport. That's "summer," as in warm days and nights (OK not necessarily in San Francisco, but the ballpark is so lovely who cares if it's a bit chilly?). Pitchers should not be required to pitch in pouring rain. Batters should not have to try to hit that slider when it's wet. And the infielders and outfielders shouldn't be playing in all that water. And the fans in the stands are heroic; at least the players are reaping monetary reward for their slogging, whereas the fans have paid dearly for the privilege of getting wetter and wetter. And think of the umpires, and the base coaches! And the hotdog vendors in the stands! Is anybody having any fun? 

I don't know what's to be done about this dopey situation, but somebody should figure something out. Baseball played in the waning days of October just doesn't make for good baseball. Harrumph.

Street scene

It hasn't been cold enough to make it feel like fall is really here (and I'm hoping the warm days last at least through tomorrow, when I'm doing a 60-mile bike ride). Nevertheless, the trees in my neighborhood are beginning to turn color—not dramatically yet, and they certainly never do anything resembling the blaze of glory back East, or even in Boise, but still, they're changing. I took a few pictures today around noon; you can see for yourself . . .

This is the hackberry in front of the house . . .


And this is the little Japanese maple (at least I think that's what it is) in the front yard . . .

Out on the deck, in the back of the house, you can see the crape myrtle through the railing . . .

And here's the lovely wind chime gong Fred and Jen gave me for Christmas a few years ago . . .

Warm days, blue skies, clear nights. Is this Indian summer?

Degrees of separation

Just back from the annual UC Davis Quarter Century Club dinner, which was, as usual, a lovely and fun event. Lots of old friends to reconnect with, including Teri Bachman, for many years my editor and mentor at UC Davis Magazine and a new initiate this year to the Quarter Century Club; my former boss, Jan Conroy; and the rest of the new 25- (and 50!) year initiates.

After dinner (and many glasses of quite fine wine), I found myself in conversation with Warren Roberts, the superintendent of the UC Davis Arboretum. I've known Warren for years, know something of his family's history in this part of the world (I think they arrived about the same time Father Serra did), and we've had some lighthearted exchanges now and again. But tonight I discovered that he and I lived in Burlingame in the '50s, both attended Burlingame High School, and both were in the band. Prof. Brose was the band director; Warren played the French horn; I was a second (or possibly third) clarinet. We managed to summon up the BHS alma mater ("On our city's western foothills, reared against the sky . . .") (This is a highly fanciful concept, by the way; while the city, itself, does nudge against the western hills, the high school itself is conspicuously planted in the flats, not that far from San Francisco Bay), and recalled the not-so-lovely band uniforms we wore to the football games.

My family moved away from Burlingame following my freshman year at BHS, so my memories of that place end when I was 14. Funny now to realize that Warren, this grown up, mature, funny, intelligent, accomplished man is someone whom I once sat near in third-period (or was it first-period?) band. I'm tempted to say I wish I'd known him then, but maybe not; maybe it's more fun (and more magical) to learn our shared history after an evening of celebrating our communal history. 

Cheap chicken

I'm working on being thrifty, partly because of the general economic malaise but mostly out of sheer necessity (my only freelance project is a story for the magazine, which won't produce any $$ until January, and then only if I manage to get it written and submitted). So Monday for dinner I roasted a 4-lb chicken, along with some potatoes and carrots and turnips. I must say, it was delicious, and I've been eating the leftovers in various ways—just reheated, in a sandwich for lunch, and tonight I made rice and bean burritos with a bit of chicken added in. I was surprised to realize that I'd never roasted a chicken before. Turkey, yes, but not chicken. I intend to see just how many meals I can get out of it; I even froze the bones and will see if they'll manage to work into soup at some point. Should have followed Susan's example and taken a picture of it to post here, but at the time I didn't even think of it. But it looked very presentable.

Boise travelogue

Arrived in Boise yesterday afternoon to be here for my Aunt Reba's memorial service, which is this afternoon at 4. Dinner at my cousin Susan's, with just about all of the rest of her side of the family: Susan's husband, Bill; her brother, Fred (the Texas prison warden, now retired) and his wife, Vicky; Susan and Bill's kids (Josh, Stacy, and Andrew) and Stacy's kids (Noah, Nicholas, and brand-new baby Alexis); the only ones not present was Stacy's husband, Fred (yep, another Fred), who was at school, and Josh's wife, Rachel, who was home vacuuming, mostly, I think, because I am staying with them while I'm here. Hope to have a family photo to post before I leave.

I just went out for a walk in Josh and Rachel's neighborhood. It's cold today, certainly colder than it's been in Davis (though not as cold as it was here a week or so ago, when it snowed, and it'll get a lot colder before the winter's over). I saw one cyclist (mountain bike), one mailman, four in-motion vehicles, and no pedestrians (the mailman was in his mail truck). Also, no campaign signs of any kind or persuasion. Yesterday, though, driving to Susan's from the airport, I saw lots. Most were for candidates I've never heard of (there must be several other offices in contention here in Idaho and Boise) but what I was on the lookout for were signs for presidential candidates. Being as it's Idaho, I expected a lot for McCain, and I did see one. And two for Obama. Yes! Josh says while he expects McCain will carry the state, he reckons Obama will make a much stronger showing than a Democrat would have done in earlier elections. Stay tuned.

P.S. As promised, here are at least some of the Boise clan:

Josh, Susan, Bill, Vicky and Fred, suited up and ready for the Boise State-Hawaii game. (Boise won.)

Look! Up in the sky!

Thanks to the Daily Overlook, I discovered Amazing Space, produced by the Space Telescope Science Institute's Office of Public Outreach. The site has lots of info that's been gathered by the Hubble telescope (which, in August, completed its 100,000th orbit around the Earth), and looks to be targeted to school-age kids. The best bit is called Tonight's Sky, a Flash movie highlighting the October night sky. What's fun about October is the Great Square of Pegasus, which Amazing Space has turned into a baseball diamond, befitting this month of Major League playoffs and the World Series. There are the bases, the pitcher and the catcher, even a manager arguing with an umpire. Check it out.

And here's to my sweet son John, who loved all sports, but especially baseball. I miss you every day, but especially in October. May your memory be a blessing, and may your beloved Baltimore Orioles have a winning season in '09.

John Folsom
Dec. 30, 1963—Oct. 12, 1986

The cookie has crumbled

Mother's Cookies has declared bankruptcy and closed down. I don't follow the cookie industry, and it's been years since I ate one of Mother's pink-and-white circus animals (or any of Mom's other varieties), but I don't think I'll ever purge my brain of the advertising jingle they used years ago:

Mother's
are like no others;
They're the cookies
in the
passionate purple package!
Mammy!

(I could be wrong about that final "Mammy!" being part of the original, but that's what we always added when we sang it.)

R.I.P.
Mom
1914-2008

A Yom Kippur prayer for my country

If we are worth saving,

Give us strength.

If we are worth saving,

Give us patience.

If we are worth saving,

Give us determination.

If we are worth saving,

Give us humility.

If we are worth saving,

Give us insight.

If we are worth saving,

Give us imagination.

If we are worth saving,

Give us fortitude.

If we are worth saving,

Give us creativity.

If we are worth saving,

Give us ingenuity.

If we are worth saving,

Give us tolerance.

If we are worth saving,

Give us cooperation.

If we are worth saving,

Give us leadership.
If we are worth saving,
Give us resolve.

If we are worth saving,

Give us hope.

Amen.

Blast from the past

Lloyd Thaxton

1927-2008

I hadn't thought about Lloyd Thaxton in years—make that decades—then, in today's L.A. Times, I read his obituary. Living in the L.A. area in the '60s, I was a modest fan of Thaxton's "Dance Party," by modest I mean that I watched occasionally and enjoyed it when I did. He was wacky in a smart way, exaggerating the characters he dreamed up in a genuinely funny, yet genuinely decent way. The video clip that's included with the obituary illustrates that far better than I can . . .

What surprised me most was discovering that rather than fading into obscurity after "Dance Party" ended, Thaxton went on to do lots of other creative stuff, including co-producing "Fight Back!" on (I think) CBS. Even more surprising was learning he had a blog. Some nice stuff there, too. I often feel a tinge of regret when I learn of the death of someone who played a role in my early life, even such a minor role as the one played by "Dance Party"; regret that I'd just pretty much forgotten all about that person. In the case of Lloyd Thaxton, it's even stronger; I think he would have been someone worth keeping in mind.

Lloyd Thaxton, singing in the rain

All the news that fits, we print

Succumbing to its "half-off for 26 weeks (and four more weeks if paid by credit card!)", I've reupped my subscription to the New York Times. There's so much good stuff in it every day, and I just don't want to read it off my computer screen. Headlines, yes; but when it comes to an opinion piece, or an in-depth news analysis, or almost anything in the Sunday magazine section,  I want paper, dammit!

So now I get three newspapers, the Times, the Bee, and the Enterprise. The Enterprise is a necessity for anyone living in Davis (once, in a fit of outrage at Jon Li's vitriolic screeds, I cancelled my subscription, then felt like a self-imposed exile from the community until some months later I quietly resubscribed; gotta read the letters to the editor and the wedding news). I just paid for eight more weeks of the Bee, but I'm less and less inclined to continue it (this morning's front-page photo again featured a grieving survivor of some tragedy, this time the bus crash up near Williams; I'm thoroughly weary of the pandering to maudlin sympathy that seems to be the Bee's guiding editorial policy these past few months. But I think local newspapers are vital, so I hate to bring another nail to the coffin party by cancelling). 

I probably won't be able to keep up with the Times, but even if I don't read all of it every day, I feel better having it here in the house, my newsprint security blanket in this chaotic period. But I may have to get a bigger recycling bin.

But what about menudo?

Quote of the day: "All they're selling is food. Carne asada is not a crime."

(Phil Greenwald, attorney for Los Angeles taco truck vendors who successfully fought a law requiring the trucks to move every hour or face $1,000 fines and possible jail time. The law was passed last spring after restaurateurs complained that taco trucks parking on the streets near their businesses were drawing away customers. A judge threw out the law in August.)

Winky-Dink and us

I've been harboring a suspicion this past week or so, and now that I've seen Sarah Palin's performance in the Vice-Presidential debate, those suspicions have been confirmed: There is no Sarah Palin; Tina Fey is Sarah Palin. This ruse will be revealed two days before election day and will be judged to be such a hoot that the McCain-Palin/Fey ticket will win the White House by a landslide.

If you think this idea is completely wacko, take a look:
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=0Y7E235ujJ4

Murder of crows

The clouds this evening made for a nice sunset, so I stepped out on my deck to watch. The color faded quickly, but I stayed out anyway, watching the crows come home from work. There must be as many of them during the other seasons, but they always seem more numerous as fall draws near. My house is surrounded by big trees, and watching the crows cruise in, wheel around and find a spot in one of them is a sight I never tire of. They jostle each other, caw raucously, always reminding me of people meeting up after work at the local pub. They just keep coming and coming; watching over the roof my house, it seems as though there's a crow-generating machine just to the west, cranking them out and sending them sailing over my rooftop. If I ever moved away from Davis, I'd miss a lot of things, but I think I'd miss the crows the most.

Aaarrrgh!

Lost my wallet yesterday. Getting ready to leave the house on yet another errand, couldn't find it. Go downstairs, look in car. No wallet. Call Neil, where I'd been just 30 minutes before. "Is my wallet at your house, by any chance?" Neil looks around in all the places I'd been. "No, it's not here." First intimation that this will not have a happy ending. Next, I call Nugget, where I'd stopped before going to Neil's, to get flowers and an almond croissant for Lisa (it was her birthday). "Did anyone turn in a wallet? It's dark gray, Eagle Creek or some such brand . . ." "No, I'm sorry; if you'll give me your phone number, I'll call you if it does show up." Second intimation . . . Hoping against hope (and even reason), I get back in the car and drive up to Nugget to look in the parking lot, on the off chance (Hah!) the wallet got kicked under something and no one (Hah! Hah!) had seen it. Guess how that went . . .

OK, so now I know I'm in for it, "it" being cancelling my debit/check card, trying to remember what, exactly, was in my wallet, what else do I need to cancel and/or replace (driver's license, library card, UCD retiree ID card, Triple A card, and on and on). Go to bank, cancel debit/check card and order a new one. (Golden 1 staff person: "Do you have your ID with you?" Me: "Um, I lost my wallet. That's why I'm here, remember?")

Back home, call Triple A, order a replacement card. Call my gasoline credit card company to cancel the card in my wallet and order a replacement. (Automated system: "Please enter the number embossed on the card." Me: "Hello?! I don't HAVE the card, you @%?!*&! idiot!" I do finally encounter a human . . .)

Now the real chore: I pay many of my recurring expenses by means of—guess what—my debit card, things like my public radio/TV pledge, my Sierra Club and other organization dues, my monthly contribution to the Obama campaign, my copper.net account . . . I now have to contact each of them and give them my new debit card number. It's a lengthy list. And I can't start calling until I receive the new card, because I don't know the new expiration date. But I begin making the list and finding phone numbers.

About three hours later, the phone rings. It's Neil: "Found it!" Me: "Oh, no! I mean, oh, good!" Neil: "I suppose you've already cancelled your cards." Me: "Uh-huh. Guess I'll still be making all those phone calls . . ."

Oh, well; at least I have the wallet back, and my library and Co-op and retiree ID cards, AND my driver's license, not to mention my "frequent eater" card from Mariachi and "frequent shopper" card from Avid Reader. Those are way more valuable than the $2 I had in there.

Home again . . .

New York, New York

Tonight, the New York Yankees played their last game in Yankee Stadium. I've never been a huge Yankee fan, but I am absolutely a baseball fan. And watching that final game in that—OK, I'll say it—almost hallowed piece of ground, I felt such a love for the game, for its traditions, for that essence that no other sport captures and distills.

I grew up listening to Yankee games. In the '40s and early '50s, there was no Major League baseball in California, and my father always listened to the Game of the Week. I heard the names DiMaggio, Mantle, Maris, Berra; I knew who they were and what good baseball players they were. They were Yankees. Tonight, after the last out—fittingly, the Yankees won, beating the Orioles 7-3—Derek Jeter, surrounded by the rest of his team, took the microphone and paid tribute to the fans, saying what a privilege and an honor it is to wear the Yankee uniform and play for such devoted and loyal fans. When he finished speaking, to the sounds of Sinatra singing "New York, New York," the players circled the field, waving and tipping their hats to the fans, who clapped and cheered and cried.

Next year, the Yankees will play in their brand-new ballpark across the street from the old one. They'll still be the Yankees, still the love-'em-or-hate-'em team, but the Yankee Stadium that for me existed only on radio and television (I never got there in person) will always be the "real" one. And though the Giants are my team, and if they ever again play the Yankees in a World Series, or even an interleague game, I will want passionately for them to win, tonight, the Yankees were my baseball team; more than that, they were baseball.

A new neighbor/Feline dreams

Last night I dreamed about kittens, four of them, that had been born to a cat I lived with. I was taking care of them in their odd circumstances (not worth going into; it was a dream, after all), but despite the slight concern that there were four of them, I was happy to have them.

Today, I returned home about noon from a bike ride to find a moving van in front of my house and a new neighbor moving in. Her name is Lisa, she's a licensed marriage, family and child counselor who works for Sacramento County, and she has two cats, both boys, named C.J. and Jake. I haven't met them yet (they won't arrive until all the moving-in is done), but I'll be glad to welcome them to the neighborhood, as I am equally glad to welcome their "mom."

I think I may be getting closer to getting a cat of my own.

Aunt Reba

My cousin called yesterday from Boise with the news that my aunt Reba had died that morning. She was 91, and pretty much up until her last week was still full of spunk, at least in spirit. She was my father's only sister, the next to the youngest of six, all the rest boys. She was the first to tell you that she had been spoiled by her brothers, then by her wonderful husband, my uncle Beck. But she would also be the first to tell you how grateful she was for all that, and what a good life she had had. She always found a way to have fun, was always smartly dressed and made up, and had a wonderful sense of humor.

I lost track of her and my cousins for many years, only reconnecting about seven or eight years ago. Once I did, I went to Boise to visit, got caught up on her and the rest of that side of the family, and thoroughly enjoyed her company. I'm thankful I got to see her while she was still doing well; in many ways, she hadn't changed a bit from the times we used to visit when I was a kid. She had a good life, and a good death, and I'm sure she would have approved.

Five-finger exercises

I had my first piano lesson today. For 30 minutes I practiced some scales (two hands, please) and sight-read the first few songs in "The Joy of First Year Piano." Now it's practice, practice, practice here at home, hoping that my arthritic fingers are up to the task.

Signspotting

Posters in the window of a bakery/coffeehouse, Yachats, Oregon:

Offerings at Olalla Summer Camp: 

Papermaking with invasive weeks

Stealth and nature awareness games

Forest exercise and kayaking

Announcement of auditions for a play at the local community theater:

"A redblooded all-American boy and his bodacious grandmother reluctantly join forces with an impudent librarian and lead their isolated coastal village into a ruthless scufle with . . . THE GHOUL FROM HELL!"

An invitation to local citizens . . .

Meet our recently appointed Curcuit Court judge, Sheryl Bachart . . .

And lastly, a notice on the door of La Prima Pizza, in Calistoga:

Please note: Restrooms are for use by costumers only.