Small businessmen

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

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

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

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

Youth movement

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

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

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

Re-entry

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

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

Eye to eye

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


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

Local commentary

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

Keep Davis Boring

Buzz and Sam

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

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

Grandkids' tchotchkelehs

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

Growing up Mongol

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

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

Jane, Jane, Jane . . .

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Gloom

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

This is all beginning to feel Biblical.

Camping

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

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

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

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

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

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


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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Summer reading

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

Help wanted

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

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

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

Smoke gets in your eyes

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

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

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

Building better mousetraps

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

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

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

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

Games for your brain

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

Road trip

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

It's about time

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

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

Evening with friends

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

The Highway 99 Series

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

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

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