Good neighbors make good fences

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

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

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

Bits and bobs . . . and baseball

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

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

Insect conundrum

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

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

Wisteria dreams

For Susan . . .

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

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

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

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

Changing the subject

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



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


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

Again with the sex scandal?

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

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

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

In the hills

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

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

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

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

Gone without a trace

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

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

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

Holey feet

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

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

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

As I was saying before that interruption . . .

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

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

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

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

On, Wisconsin!

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

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

Play ball!

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

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

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

Topless

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

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

Naked toes

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


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

Pomposity or ignorance? You make the call . . .

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

Oncle Gordo's Bag of Treeks

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

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

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

Super Tuesday aftermath

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

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

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

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

Flinging into spring

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

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

(In)decision '08

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

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

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

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

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