Holey feet

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

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

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

As I was saying before that interruption . . .

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

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

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

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

On, Wisconsin!

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

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

Play ball!

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

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

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

Topless

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

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

Naked toes

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


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

Pomposity or ignorance? You make the call . . .

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

Oncle Gordo's Bag of Treeks

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

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

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

Super Tuesday aftermath

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

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

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

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

Flinging into spring

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

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

(In)decision '08

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

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

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

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

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

A Dem's dilemm

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

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

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

Gap in the record

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

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

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

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

Pop quiz

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

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

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

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

Big valley

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

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

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

But first, a word from our sponsor

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

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

Rain

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

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

And another thing!

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

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

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

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

Tra-la-la-ing

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

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

Dr. King goes to kindergarten

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

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

Tell me about him, I said.

"He had brown skin and black hair."

And why do we have a special day for him?

"He was a leader, and he died."

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

Nice to know my grandchildren have an appreciation for detail.