Phedocia's Soapbox

The Cat and The Other Cat

2011-12-28T15:25:00.000-08:00

Boris the Bully

Tiger the Twit (note bare area near base of tail)

The Cat Who Thought He Had It All

2011-12-26T19:16:00.000-08:00

Looks? Yes. Charm? Definitely! Complete genitalia? No.

Tiger is a eunuch. I mean, if a eunuch is a guy whose testicles have been removed prior to sexual maturity, he's a eunuch. He just doesn't act like one. I've been thinking of asking the vet to check for a third family jewel that never descended, but Daughter states authoritatively that "The T" -- testosterone -- is produced by other glands as well.

We suspect Tiger's other glands are overproductive.

Tiger struts around like a tom's tom. The vet says it's all about attitude. Well, that Tiger does have in great abundance. Moxie too. As timid as he can be about some things, the truth is there's a devil running loose in the adorable beast, and we've never known him to shrink from a fight.

We suspect he rather enjoys fighting, to tell you the truth.

Christmas Eve, the kitty was outside in near-freezing weather, much longer than is typical for him. We were getting nervous, but he finally showed up, rather late, looking like something he had dragged in. Tufts of fur jutted out irregularly around his head like a makeshift crown. Patches of His Majesty's fur were missing from about his head and neck, as if they'd been harvested with a scythe.

We thought he looked rather pleased with himself, all the same.

As he attempted to make himself comfortable on my lap he kept twitching and suddenly lapping at various body parts. There arose from him an aroma that defies description. That was when Hubby educated me about some of the finer points of cat fights. I will spare my readers details; suffice to say, cat fights aren't just about claws and teeth.

On Christmas day, Hubby and I took our daily walk and noticed several cats on our street that were new to us. They looked quite young and they strongly resembled ... Boris! We have a kitty population explosion on our street. Fast, young, strong, agile masked cats are proliferating and prowling while Tiger gets older, slower, weaker and clumsier. And stupider.

Boris the Bully is producing more bullies and Tiger the Twit is taking all comers. "Bring it on!"

We've observed that no good comes from an attitude like that.

We understand there's such a thing as vet insurance; we're looking into it.

The Cat Who Used Up A Life

2011-12-14T22:41:00.000-08:00

Tiger has only been with us for two of his nine years, so we don't know how many of his proverbial nine lives he's expended. On Saturday, though, we're pretty sure he used up one of whatever he has left.

He came indoors from his morning rounds, acting perfectly normal and even helped Hubby make the bed before curling up on it for a snooze. Situation normal. It wasn't until we realized he'd been in there for an unusually long time that we checked and found blood on his tail. There was none around the bed or on the floor. It was most mysterious.

He barely looked at us with dull eyes, and even his fur didn't feel right -- not as soft and silky as it had just hours before. Very, very gingerly, he licked at the blood and at his tail, but he refused to let us get a close look. He never likes to be handled on any but his own terms, and we bear many scars from the times when we've had to force the issue. In case he had a broken bone or internal injuries, we decided not to insist. We didn't want to make it worse. For the same reason, we decided not to force him into a carrier and take him to the vet. We decided to watch him as closely as he would allow and if his condition worsened we would act accordingly.

It was a long, restless night as our little friend laid unmoving on his spot on our bed. It was unnatural not to feel him move around, shifting position and grooming off and on through the night. It seemed very possible he might expire in the night, and I found myself praying.

At first light on Sunday, he was still with us, and though not feverish at all, he was still lethargic and still very protective of his tail. Stiffly, he rose from his spot and jumped from the bed. He took some water and food and returned to bed. Over the next few days he spent almost no time outside. He went out to do his duty and then returned to bed.

By Monday, though, the light had returned to his eyes and his fur felt silky and wonderful again. He started to make his funny little growly noise when making a move to jump down from or up to the bed. He purred contently from time to time, but he also purred when he was warning us away from his wound.

We observed that his tail, which he so often kept straight up, with a cute curl at the tip, hung down -- and a bit to the right. We wondered if we'd ever see it in "up periscope" position again, or even whether it would ever hang to the middle again. His wonderful, expressive tail -- how we would miss its messages!

Monday evening, for the first time since his injury, he joined us on the couch, curling up on my lap and purring. During that night, we felt him moving on the bed. On Tuesday he spent a good while sunning and bathing himself outside. He had not, however, meowed even once since he had been injured. Normally a very vocal fellow, he was nearly silent. What sort of event steals a cat's meow?!

We speculated about what might have occurred. The primary downside to having an outdoor cat is that not only is he more likely to be injured, but we're less likely to know where and how the injury occurred. We know he has an arch enemy with whom he has tangled repeatedly. At one time he was toppled by The Other from his alpha position. More recently, they seem to have established an uneasy truce, though with Tiger maintaining control of the much-envied top of the old fence.

Tiger on top & Clayton/Boris below

Did they fight over it yet again? Was The Other also injured? If so, how badly? If it wasn't a fight, did Tiger catch his tail in a gate? Did he fail to dodge a moving car? Did Curiosity try to kill the cat? We don't know. We might never know. For now, we're just glad to still have our little friend with us. He's family, really. We can hardly remember what life was like before he adopted us, and we're in no hurry to experience life without him. We hope there are special kitty angels who guard and keep him when we can't be with him, and we give and receive all the love we can when we are with him.

Really, that's what we do with all our friends and family. Love them and trust that the same mysteries that uphold us are upholding them too. C'est la vie.

================
Update: Late on Tuesday night we noted that Tiger had licked part of his tail bald, so we realized we had to take him to the vet in the morning. The vet diagnosed an abscess and found the cat bite mark that caused it. He still wasn't running a fever, though. They stuffed Tiger in his travel box and carried him from the room to treat the abscess. When he returned, we learned it had taken three people to hold him down while they shaved his fur and drained the abscess. It was an unhappy kitty who was returned to us, yet again stuffed into his box. He'd received an antibiotic injection and we were given instructions on keeping the wound open and clean at home. Well! We certainly see why it took three people to hold him down! Alas, there are only two of us, but twice a day until this thing heals we have to pin down the kitty and torture him for his own good. The tail, though, is already riding higher. He is being very Tiger-y again, and we're relieved about that.

===============
Update 2: Monday, Dec. 19 -- The tail behaves like its old self, but of course looks funny with a shaved spot. The culprit who bit our little guy walked by the window yesterday and Tiger whimpered as he passed. We don't know his name, but we used to call the culprit "Clayton" because he has a black mask and Clayton Moore was Hubby's favorite portrayer of the Lone Ranger, as in "Who was that masked man?!" But now we call him "Boris", as in Boris Badenov, the chief villain of the Rocky and Bullwinkle Show. He's small and he's mean. He also happens to be cute as a bug. We would love to make friends with him. We would love for Tiger to make friends with him. Given their history, though, friendship seems not to be in the cards. Since Tiger is not going to become an indoor kitty (it's been tried before), the best we can hope for is that he's learned to stay away from the thug.

Consistency Matters

2011-11-11T17:41:00.000-08:00

I subscribe to "Daily Cat Tip" from catster.com, and when I got a tip the other day about house training a cat, I couldn't help but wonder: Why is this so obvious for cats, but seemingly not for kids? I see countless parents failing to heed this very basic and sound advice where their children are concerned. Are they any more likely to apply them to their cats?

When it comes to training [teaching] a new cat [a child] the rules of the house [or classroom or society], nothing will undo your good intentions faster than being inconsistent. .... One family member doesn't allow the cat on the dining table [the child to play at the table], but then another will. .... It's not fair to send mixed messages to your cat [child] and then get mad when [he or] she doesn't seem to respond to your training [teaching] requests. Make sure all family members are on the same page when it comes to training the cat [teaching your child].

Well... DUH!

Reflection of the Times

2011-11-11T17:05:00.000-08:00

As a new volunteer at the bookstore that raises funds in support of our libraries, I learn a lot. I learn really cool things and I learn things I'd as soon not know.

How did I get here? As it happens, they needed someone to take on the section of warehouse shelving that is in my field. I have a yellowing degree in Home Economics -- Child and Family Development, and the prospect of spending a few hours a week sorting books was appealing. Those hours are rewarding without being a major drain on emotional or psychic energy. Plus, they provide snacks. Perfect.

It's not all cookies and literate people, however, although both are present. Now and then it's a wake-up call. I recently learned that in the front area of the book store (the place that's normally open to the public, where all the best books are sold for ridiculously low prices) the parents who buy books about parenthood don't want anything more than a year old. My reaction? "But Penelope Leach is the greatest resource ever!"

As soon as I'd said that, I realized my mother might have said the same thing about Dr. Spock. Yes, sorry to say, I was a "Spock Baby". My daughter was a "Leach Baby", a major step up according to pretty much everyone in the know about such things. So, who do today's new parents follow? I'm not clear about whether there's any one stand-out author answering the questions posed by today's expectant and new parents, but I did learn about one pair of them.

Skinny Bitch Bun in the Oven is the title of a book that came to my section the other day. The subtitle? A Gusty Guide to Becoming One Hot (and Healthy) Mother! I turned the book over and read the back.

"So you're knocked up, huh? Congratulations! This is one of the most magical and miraculous times in your life. But that doesn't mean you have a free pass to shovel crap in your mouth all day long! .... So the Bitches are back to tell you what the hell to eat through all nine months and beyond."

The chapter headings include "Carbs: Eat 'Em, Dumb-Ass" and "What the Hell to Eat".

The authors, Rory Freeman and Kim Barnouin, are pictured on the back, looking like normal, civilized people. They are educated people. Even so, we are informed that "Both Bitches live in Los Angeles."

Charming.

From perusing the book, I find no fault with their facts or their priorities when it comes to maternal care and nutrition. It's their language that's off-putting to me. I get that they are catering to a specific audience -- one that might not pick up a book that doesn't include raunchy language in every second sentence. Maybe they're doing the next generation a great favor by educating their mothers about their bodies and the importance of balance and of avoiding toxic habits. But does this mean my grandchildren will be "Bitches Babies"?

We live in raunchy times. The 1920s scandalized previous generations with behavior that inspired a musical and its title song, "Anything Goes".

In olden days a glimpse of stocking
Was looked on as something shocking.
Now, heaven knows,
Anything goes!

But the truth is that even in the 20s, not everything went. There were still things that were left unsaid. There were standards. There were parameters.

In 2011, it seems the only distinct parameters have to do with murder, incest, and cannibalism. Apart from those things, anything, it seems, goes. Nothing is private, nothing is indecent, and nothing is in place to discourage people from bleeping their way through any and every conversation.

In my quaint little world, to punctuate one's sentences with profanity is to expose one's ignorance. If educated people can build an empire based on liberal use of bleepage, what hope is there for the future?

Despair though I might, (and I do despair), what is painfully clear to me is that this is not my world anymore. The next generation is coming into their own while my generation is retiring to book sorting and snacking. The world is theirs to make or break, and I pray they do a better job than we did. If language is an indicator, though, our grandchildren face harsh times, indeed.

Visits from loved ones

2011-04-27T15:00:00.001-07:00

Words aren't usually difficult for me, but a recent experience seems to defy description with words. I'm not sure how to tell this story without sounding coo-coo. Perhaps a little background to start....

My dad died of cancer in 1981; thirty years ago come October. He was fifty-six years young, and we all felt royally cheated by a universe that would cut a remarkable life so short. A source of comfort for me through the decades has been what I call "visits" from Dad. He shows up in dreams and we talk about things that matter and we share a cry -- (something we did only once in life, on his death bed). Sometimes we share a laugh. Sometimes he teaches me something new, or affirms something I've learned. He appears in random stages of life in these dreams -- sometimes middle aged and healthy, sometimes middle aged and dying, and sometimes quite elderly and preparing for his second departure.

This is profound stuff, and it nourishes a part of me that misses him terribly. That's probably why I was feeling a bit lost when, on the six month anniversary of my mom's death I hadn't dreamed about her at all. I couldn't shake the look of her in her final days, and it hurt not to be able to call her healthy face to my mind without a lot of effort. I blogged about it on February 22, and since then my brother has shared with me that he's been in the same condition.

There was something about writing that blog that unlocked something inside of me, though, because within a month afterward I was dreaming about Mom, too. Sometimes she was middle-aged, sometimes she was old, sometimes healthy, sometimes sickly, sometimes she and Dad "visited" together, sometimes not, and most often Mom appeared as about my current age -- middle-aged and graying, but healthy and vital. Then, a few weeks ago, I had a dream that was different from all the others, and it had a profound impact. When I described it to my brother and said I wanted to blog about it he wished me luck in translating it into a blog. Well, here goes:

I'm elderly and I'm on my deathbed. My daughter is there, middle-aged and holding my hand. We're talking about my imminent demise, about my lack of fear, about my love for her, and then I see my mother standing beside my daughter. I say, "Mommy?" My daughter looks confused and I explain, "I see my mommy. She's right beside you. She's going to show me the way." But Mom appeared to be in her twenties and she was radiant. She literally glowed with -- what? -- happiness? No, it was beyond happiness. It was joy. Besides that, she was beautiful. Her familiar pale blue eyes shone with a light I'd never seen in them before. Her skin was perfect -- a peaches and cream complexion. She looked stunning, and without so much as the lipstick she always (always!) wore in life.

My brother didn't need the explanation I'm going to give you, dear reader. He knew Mom, and he knew we'd never seen her radiant and he knew she'd been denied physical beauty in life. This was an extraordinary vision. I told him I had the sense that I was seeing our mom the way God (or whatever) has always seen her. Within these fragile clay suits we wear reside pure beings -- pure spirits -- and I believe that is what I was allowed to see in that dream.

Mom is not gone. She is with us on some level all the time. We came from her and she is part of us. She is free now, though. She's free of fickle flesh, of life's dramas and traumas and the evidence they leave upon us. She's free of disease, of dementia, and she's even free of the possessions humans drag around from place to place and try to keep track of. She's free and happy and existing in life's purest form: spirit. And she will continue to exist for us as long as we remember her and talk about her and continue to do the things we loved to do when we did them with her.

I will always remember what it was like in those final days of Mom's life, just as I remember the same about Dad's, but now that isn't the image of her that predominates. It's one among many, and now I also have that radiant image of her from beyond to hold in my heart. Somehow it closes the circle for me. Preachers speak of "ashes to ashes, dust to dust", but I think if they really understand what comes after this life they should also speak of "light to light, joy to joy, purity to purity".

Mom's ashes, Mom's dust, sits in a container in my house, but she is not there. She is free. And I am freer now, too.

Thanks for visiting, Mom.

Stormy Weather

2011-03-29T07:46:00.000-07:00

These charming critters are oyster catchers. They're our favorite shore bird. Besides a somewhat clownish appearance, they giggle when they fly. It's sort of a screechy giggle, but very funny. So, when the tide is low and you hear something out there sounding quite amused about something, look for these goofy birds.

Hubby and I have just returned from a week in Pacific Grove, where adventures and misadventures always await. We are blessed to have access to a relative's house there, and so get to visit fairly often at little cost, so we seize the opportunity whenever we can.

Every year we have a big treat, such as seeing a live theatrical performance or a concert. (Yeah, if it costs about $100 or more, that's the annual treat. We've a budget to keep.) This year, our big treat to ourselves was to go whale watching. As the Sea Wolf II departed the marina, we saw this pair of otters -- mom and pup -- floating toe-to-toe.

Also in the marina were hundreds of sea lions and cormorants both in and out of the water.

There was a pretty decent storm surge, with swells predicted to be as much as 15 feet. We're pretty sure that was a conservative forecast. I learned a whole new respect for wildlife photographers that day. It is incredibly difficult to get decent photos from a pitching and rolling boat! It was our first experience of being on the ocean. Hubby, being a lover of roller coasters, had no trouble with this. I had taken a homeopathic remedy for motion sickness, and was only a little woozy. Several shipmates were very ill, so I counted myself fortunate.

This image is the best I got of several gray whales we saw. They seemed mighty huge to me, but other times of year there are blue whales in these same waters, and they're the biggest creatures on earth, so we're going to make another annual treat some time of whale watching when they're around.

The whales were neat, but our favorites were the dolphins -- especially the pacific white-sided dolphins who liked to play with the boat. This is my best shot of them, but it doesn't show that there were dozens of them swimming along side of the boat and following in our wake. They were great fun!

We thought the cat had the perfect life, but these guys are in close competition. The sea lions compete for space on this buoy. My first glimpse of the buoy was just in time to see a sea lion make a jump for it and bounce off back into the water.

I couldn't get good pictures of them, but we saw quite a few Black-winged Albatrosses of Hawaii. They're massive, with a wingspan of some 16 feet! We learned that these birds spend days and weeks at sea without even touching down on the water or anything else for a rest. (The next day we would stumble onto a presentation about albatrosses at the aquarium, where we would learn that they're able to do this because they don't use muscle to hold their wings out. They lock them in place and it's no effort at all to maintain that ideal shape for gliding.)

Our trip was through Monterey Bay Whale Watch, and we had a good time. The naturalist on board did a good job of not only pointing out the critters, but also talking about how to find them and explaining their behaviors. She made herself available to answer questions, which was a nice touch. Our only complaints were that the boat seemed less than optimally maintained and the engine was extremely loud. After our three hour tour (cue Gilligan theme) my ears rang for at least a half hour, and audiologists tell us that if your ears are ringing, the damage is done. I had ear plugs with me, but was unwilling to block out what the naturalist had to say. Next time, we plan to try out Randy's Whale Watch and then we'll have a basis for comparison.

We had chosen the one predicted dry day to take our whale watching trip. The drive to Pacific Grove had been stormy and slow, and our first full day there had been wet. The day after whale watching started out windy, but mostly sunny, and we saw this very obliging red-shouldered hawk on our way to the aquarium.

While we were inside the aquarium, the sky opened up and we were drenched on the walk home. We later learned we had only to wait for the 1X bus and we could have ridden home, but then we would have missed out on the adventure of being thoroughly wet and cold.

If memory serves, that was the night there were two massive downpours, and the next morning the house weather station said we'd had 1.33" of rain in the past 24 hours. We visited the Natural History Museum, but it was rainy and threatening to get worse, so that was our one outing of the day. It was just too wet and yucky. There's something to be said for hanging out indoors. That may have been the day we discovered the Criminal Minds marathon on cable. Oh boy!

We had planned to eat out that night, and we got dressed up and started to walk to a nearby restaurant where we could both enjoy cocktails and then walk home. It was yucky out there! So, we retreated back into the house, changed back into comfy clothes and discovered a really wonderful pizza place that delivers. Pizza My Way makes delicious gourmet pizzas, including many with white sauce instead of tomato. YUM! Even the salad was special and delicious. I love that it's unique to Pacific Grove, although if it were a chain, maybe we could have their wonderful pizza at home, too.

That night, the story was wind. Gale force winds whipped around the house and moaned across the top of the chimney. We retired for the night wondering whether we might awaken in Oz.

Fortunately, we did not awaken in Oz, and we seized dry moments to go to the beach. Sometimes the sun even came out for us, illuminating the wonderful colors of the sea. Truly, the quake and tsunami victims in Japan were not far from out minds as we watched the powerful storm surge produce beautiful waves for our pleasure.

It was one of those days when showers opened up and sent us running for cover. This image, taken from our car, shows the contrast between the black cloud that was dumping on us and the blue sky right beside us. It only took a few minutes for the shower to pass, and then we were back on the beach.

There weren't a great many of beach-goers that day, which suited us fine, but we didn't mind sharing it with this chubby ground squirrel.

The next day was our last full day at the coast, and we took a long walk along the bay's edge. There we saw many of these quick little birds. In person, they looked like plain blackbirds except for the yellow beaks. When the sun hit them just right there would be a flash of color. I'm glad the camera caught the colors so well. I neglected to look them up in the bird guide, so I can't say what they are, but they sing a very pretty little song.

The herons in Sacramento tend to be large and staid, but the herons at the coast are smaller and more active. I got many shots of this one acting pretty much like the stoic herons of home, but was happy when it decided to leap from one rock to another.

To us, this looks like about the last thing we want to do. Get in that cold pacific water, wait for the right wave, then risk life and limb for a brief, albeit dramatic, ride? Not us. Son thinks we're way too safe about the way we live our lives, but we're quite content to photograph other people taking the risks.

Storms have a way of blowing in delightful surprises, so we don't really mind that our trip included stormy weather.

Lessons in Home Ownership

2011-03-02T10:01:00.000-08:00

We purchased our home in 1994, and owning this house has been a very educational experience.

We've learned that when our home was built in 1954, the sewer lines were made of what was essentially thick tar paper. We've learned that tree roots fairly easily defeat thick tar paper. We've learned that rooter services can run a camera through one's sewer line to see just how bad it is. We've learned it's cheaper in the long run to replace the tar paper with a modern plastic line than to hire a rooting service twice a year to keep the roots at bay. We've learned there's a "trenchless" option for making that replacement. It costs extra but it's worth it if one has a landscape worth preserving.

We've learned that there is always more to it. Whatever it is -- whatever repair, replacement, improvement -- is needed, there is always more to it than what they tell when when you contract to have it done. There are always surprises. Surprises cost money. We've learned to budget 50% over the estimate in order to cover those costly surprises.

We've learned how to recognize dry rot, toxic mold and rodent damage. We've learned how to clean drains and drier vents. We've learned how to replace our own siding, how to prep and paint, how to replace the business parts of toilets, how to replace handsets on doors and how to install deadbolts. We've learned our local Ace hardware store rents out hand tools that the typical home owner might use once or twice in a lifetime, and for a very reasonable rate. This is just a sampling. We've learned lots of other stuff too.

Coming from knowing way less than home owners ought to know, we're pretty pleased with all we've learned. That's why it comes as a surprise when we find out about another thing we really should have known, but didn't. The latest one has to do with the garage door opener. It was old when we bought the place, but has bravely marched on with minor repairs and adjustments from time to time.

A couple of weeks ago it stopped working. It tried to lift the door, but couldn't. It would stop about a foot up from the ground and just shut off. So we got clever. We pushed the button and used our muscles to help it lift the rest of the way. For about two weeks. The good news is, we didn't come and go very much during that time, so it could have been worse. The bad news is that the reason the door stopped working was because of a broken spring. Having this pointed out to me by the repair person, I felt rather foolish because it was a pretty obvious break. He stopped me from demonstrating the problem by activating the door. It turns out that running a garage door opener when it has a broken spring is bad for the motor. It can get burned out that way. We were supposed to disengage the motor and open and close the thing manually until getting it repaired. Oh yeah.

The truth is, I've wanted a new garage door opener for as long as we've had the house. I want a new one with two remotes that are small and hang on a key chain. I want one that's quieter, too. But somehow, as long as we can nurse the old one along it seems frivolous to replace it. There's a coolness factor, too, in possibly possessing the oldest garage door opener on the block. It's a Genie, and it has a really old model number. It was made back when Genie was running TV ads with the jingle, "Get a Genie automatic garage door picker-upper and you'll never leave your car out anymore!"

It's vintage.

The repair guy is working on it as I type, so I don't yet know whether or not the motor is shot, but whatever the verdict, I'll be happy. I'll either have a fully functioning vintage Genie or a brand new something. And I'll have learned something.

Too Plainly

2011-02-22T14:31:00.000-08:00

Too plainly, I see you still as you were at the last.
I call forth images of younger days -- healthy years.
But snapshots fail to replace the motion picture
Playing too vividly those tender final moments --
That last week of days and nights tangled in a knot.
Your morphine could not dull my senses.

In the wee hours when nothing else seemed useful
I sang to you songs of life, love, comfort and faith.
These songs I sing now, all these months later,
Begging them for solace, and I am less raw.

I remind myself of time's healing ways,
And on days such as this I see the truth of it.
I congratulate myself for making and taking time
To feel, and yet...

Too plainly, I see you still.

The Cat Who Settled In And Settled Down

2011-01-29T15:00:00.000-08:00

When the beast officially joined our household in April we often referred to him as "fraidy cat personified". He was hyper-vigilant -- I mean even for a cat, cats being known for hyper-vigilance. The only time he seemed to be able to relax much at all was when he had at least one of us with him.

Some ten months later, it has dawned on me that he no longer jumps out of his skin at every sound. He does notice sounds, but he doesn't declare a red alert every five minutes. He turned seven in December, so some of it may be maturity, but I think it's mainly that he's finally figured out that this is his home, we are his family, and he is safe here.

He is less vocal now, though just as expressive as ever when he does vocalize. He has a remarkable vocabulary, with great variations on meows and growls. He has even been known to say "uh-oh" quite clearly, although we know he doesn't mean uh-oh when he says it. Still, it's very funny and truly endearing, all his vocalizations, as well as his body language.

His previous owner came to visit last week and the cat didn't struggle to escape his arms as much as in the past. He even rested comfortably on the floor nearby while the humans chatted, instead of hiding.

He continues to keep other cats out of the yard, almost entirely without fighting. We only know of two fights since he moved in, and he's been none the worse for both of them. Hubby and I know quite well the power of the beast's glare; we just find it amusing.

He hasn't entirely settled down, thank goodness, and his inner kitten surfaces at least once a day with great growling and pouncing and running about on paws that sound absolutely adorable pattering on the hardwood floor. His very favorite thing to do is help Hubby make the bed, and his second favorite is to lie on my lap where, after about 30 minutes, he transforms from a cat-shaped statue to a blanket of fur.

Very warm, very funny, and very welcome to the family is The Cat.

Name That Object

2011-01-22T13:31:00.000-08:00

These were wrapped in some vintage and/or antique linens I inherited. Can someone tell me what they are? The toothed wheel reminds me of the gizmos we use to mark fabric for stitching, but I suspect this one was used for spacing out the threads to be stitched together to form a line of, well, holes for lack of a better term. The hook brings latch hooks to mind, except there's no latch.

Can you help? Leave a comment!

How's the Weather?

2011-01-22T12:24:00.000-08:00

The sun is shining in Sacramento today. The sun shone all day yesterday, too. That's big news in Sacramento at this time of year. Sunshine two days in a row!

I think a lot of people who live outside California have some pretty strange ideas of what it's like here. Admittedly, some things about California are plenty strange -- Governor Moonbeam, Part II springs to mind. Gov. Arnold Schwarzenegger was a very strange thing. And then there's Southern California.

But about the weather.... People think "It Never Rains In California". They think we're all about beaches and surfing and sunning, right? People forget that the Donner Party tragedy happened in California. Death Valley is in California. Flood insurance is required in much of the central portion of California. Every now and then a tornado touches down here, too.

Winter in Sacramento, California is all about grayness. Whether it's cloudy, rainy or foggy, it's pretty much perpetually gray here from mid December through February. Gray is a lovely color. I own some gray slacks I really enjoy wearing. Our tabby has lots of beautiful gray fur. Gray is a versatile color, and makes a nice eye shadow for people like me. My eyes used to be blue, but look more gray most of the time now.

I really have nothing against gray. It's the absence of sunshine that gets to me. Somehow I don't mind so much if it rains while it's gray, but if it's gray and dry, that bugs me. It makes everything dark and dreary and almost monochromatic. It's boring and depressing and if it goes on too long it makes me want to get everybody in town to rehang their Christmas lights and leave them on day and night. A glimpse of blue becomes something to announce, to run to the window and admire. Should a ray of sunlight chance upon our yard, it's occasion to run outside in whatever we're wearing just to let that ray touch our faces for a moment or two.

So, when the sun comes out -- all the way out -- and stays out, it's a wondrous thing. Yes, come August we'll be sick to death of the sun and the heat and the flies and the mosquitoes and the Spare the Air days. But when the sun comes out in January it's time to rejoice, go for a walk, futz around in the garden, sit inside where it's warm and gaze out at the rose blooms on bushes we're told to prune into forced dormancy this time of year. We develop mental pictures of what we want to do to the garden in March when all danger of frost is past and the last of the neighbor's sycamore leaves has at last been removed to the green waste can.

California is a diverse place in so many ways. The people are diverse, certainly, but so is the climate. We have everything from the driest desert to the wettest wetlands to the greenest forests to the barest mountaintops. We have fire and ice and everything in between. In Sacramento we think it's frigid when it's below 50°F. In the S.F. Bay Area they think it's hot when the temp nears 80. It's all in what one is used to, and in Sacramento, if you've got a thing about the absence of sunlight, you ought to winter elsewhere. Me, I live here. Except for occasional escapes, I'm stuck. Ever driven in tule fog? Make sure your auto and life insurance payments are current before you try that.

Life in Sacramento. Drive one hour to the north and see amazing wetland birds and animals. Drive one hour to the East (take tire chains) and play in the snow. Drive one hour to the South and see where your food comes from. Drive one hour to the West and play tag with ocean waves and watch for spouting whales.

And people wonder why I live here.

Confused State Made Worse By Trend

2010-12-12T14:46:00.000-08:00

Somewhere around the time I turned 40, certain things started shrinking around me. Most notably, phone book and map typesets. Most irritatingly, street signs. Suddenly I couldn't drive the limit and read street signs soon enough to make the turn on the street I sought. I became one of those annoying people who drives really slowly while in search of a street. I became very contrite about all the times I cursed others who did the same.

I can and do use a magnifier to read phone books and maps, but street signs? What am I supposed to do about those? I could drum up grassroots support for making communities enlarge their signs and choose legible typesets, but during these lean times it could hardly be seen as a priority expenditure.

Meanwhile, about the time I turned 45 people started mumbling and I started asking them to repeat themselves. By the time I turned 50 it was clear that the mumbling was worse on one side than the other. Sleeping on my left side was easier because noises weren't as likely to wake me. An exam verified that my hearing had deteriorated in both ears, but more so in the right. I no longer had the luxury of talking from room to room with my family, nor understand what was being said by someone who was turned away from me. I was instinctively starting to read lips.

To make matters still worse, I was experiencing age-appropriate (I've been told) confusion. Apparently one of the myriad maladies that accompany peri-menopause is that one becomes addlepated. (Yes, Sonny, that's a word. Look it up!) Being acquainted with numerous post-menopausal women who are not addlepated, I trust the condition is temporary. I'm counting on it, because too many things beyond my control are conspiring to make my life as confusing as possible.

A few days ago I encountered a frustration that has nothing to do with my waning eyesight and hearing. It has to do with modern construction and a decision or omission made at some level to stop putting street numbers on businesses. That's why I found myself helplessly searching for 7301 Greenback Lane. With not a single street number in view, I didn't panic. The business for which I was searching was a Starbucks, and Starbucks isn't shy about making itself visible. I knew from using Yahoo! Maps that it would be between two particular cross streets, and it would be on the north side of Greenback. No problem.

Well, maybe a small problem -- I was on that part of Greenback, but there was no Starbucks in sight. Maybe a big problem -- the person I was supposed to meet there was coming from out of town and I had no way to contact her to say there were no numbers and there was no Starbucks. Further, I had never met her, so I didn't know who I was watching for or even what kind of car she'd be driving. I pulled in to the area Starbucks should have been and started asking questions. At Safeway, a number over the door said 7301. Illegible from the street, of course, it at least confirmed I was in the right place. One employee of the bank inside Safeway remembered there used to be a Starbucks in their strip mall, next to Togo's. I stepped outside and walked past Safeway to a combined Baskin-Robbins/Togo's. 7301-D or F or some such thing. Just past them I found an empty space: 7301-B. The former Starbucks.

Long story short, 55 minutes past the time we'd agreed to meet, I was about to give up when a nice lady drove up and asked whether I was waiting for her. Indeed I was, and we both had stories to tell of our adventure trying to get to the right spot. We had a wonderful visit over shakes at Baskin-Robbins.

Happy ending notwithstanding, what's the deal with not putting street numbers on buildings and signs and curbs and what-all? Don't tell me they aren't needed. My new friend had a GPS unit that was no use to her at all in this instance. Well past 7301 Greenback, her GPS said to keep going. It was wrong!

And so, businesses everywhere, hear my plea: BRING BACK NUMBERING!

Take Me Out to the Ball Game

2010-10-25T15:40:00.000-07:00

Seriously. "Take Me Out to the Ball Game" is the song I want to sing during the 7th inning stretch. Not only that, but I want to sing the same version every time. I don't want to substitute the name of the home team; I want to sing, "root, root, root for the home team".

Who decided we should listen to someone sing "God Bless America" instead? Further, what fool decided we should act as if we're hearing the national anthem while we're listening to "God Bless America"?

Why mess with a fun tradition?

Why call it the 7th inning stretch if we're not going to -- you know -- stretch?

Is this some fiendish plot to try to get the national anthem changed to "God Bless America"?

Was Tammy Nelson's rendering of "God Bless America" on Oct 21 meant to thumb San Francisco's nose at those who insist on presenting "God Bless America" instead of "Take Me Out to the Ball Game"?

Are sales of peanuts and Cracker Jack being hurt by the shunning of "Take Me Out to the Ball Game"?

Doesn't anyone know how we're expected to behave for the National Anthem?

Doesn't anyone know that we're not expected to behave that way for "God Bless America"?

Does anyone besides me care???

Stand up and do the motions with me, people!

Get a good stretch and sing with me, people!

Take me out to the ball game! Take me out with the crowd! Buy me some peanuts and Cracker Jack! I don't care if I never get back! Let me root, root, root for the home team! If they don't win, it's a shame! For it's one, two, three strikes, you're out at the old ball game!

... because that's the way it's supposed to be, people!

The Matriarch

2010-10-18T16:55:00.000-07:00

My mother died just over 8 weeks ago, and I haven't blogged about it yet. I haven't blogged since April; haven't even visited my brother's blog to see whether he's blogged about it. About her.

Eight weeks is nothing in grief country, yet I'm surprised how the tears remain so ready to fall, and how much of that day, that week, this year, this decade I find myself processing. And reprocessing. Sometimes it comes at the expense of sleep. Much of it comes at the expense of productivity. But that's when I'm home.

It's different when I'm in Oakland. Her apartment had to be cleared out, much of its contents stashed at my brother's house, where I have spent hours digging through her papers. I've sent probably 90% of it to the recycle center. Maybe 5% has to be shredded before it's recycled. About 4% has to be retained for tax purposes. That leaves the 1% that is pure treasure, and that doesn't even include the random bits of cash we've found stashed here and there. (It came to less than $200, but it kept us carefully picking through each file to make sure we didn't miss anything.)

The real treasure came in the form of stories she wrote that we never knew about; letters to sweethearts we also never knew about (before Dad -- don't get excited); letters to her parents she sent while traveling; travel journals she kept -- that kind of thing. Things that fleshed out the mom we thought we knew and made her even more interesting than we realized.

Our children think we have no clue what they're up to at any given age, somehow neglecting to realize that we were once that age, that we didn't grow up in Mayberry, and we actually have a very good idea of what they're up to. It's why we don't ask for many details. It's a balancing act. We want to know they aren't wasting their youth, but we don't want to be fully informed. It's best to leave some mystery between the generations.

I'm 99% sure my parents were virgins when they married. I'm was also 95% sure my mom was a "technical virgin" -- one who has done "everything but". Now I'm about 99% sure of that as well. But she wasn't a stranger to romance. She knew the thrill of "chemistry". She didn't have that kind of chemistry with Dad, but they were wonderful companions, best of friends, and they did grow to love one another very, very much.

We compiled photos for a slide show for the memorial gatherings. (There were two. Long story. Another day.) Going through those photos, looking at that vibrant young woman who would become my mother, reflecting on the intellect and integrity that fueled her life, it was more startling than ever to reflect on the final months. Her body and mind both betrayed her, but her spirit remained strong, her sense of humor very much intact. She was tiny at the end. I could have lifted and carried her if I'd had to. (I would have injured myself in the process, but I could have done it.) So tiny; so frail.

With her death, the role of matriarch passed to me. "Matriarch" is a loose term in our family. It's not like we control a nation or even an estate. It doesn't even mean I get to boss my little brother around. For us, it applies to the oldest member of our bit of the family tree. If my brother were older than me he'd be the patriarch, but by accident of birth I'm now the matriarch. We're so close in age, though, that about all it really means is that the next generation will have an interesting time observing which of us is next. Next to falter, to weaken, to shrink away, to lose our wits, to refuse eat and drink with the promise of all the morphine we need to be comfortable until that last breath; that last flutter of a pulse as our loved ones cry around us.

Mortality raises its sneering countenance again, and again I first cringe, then stand tall and vow to live well, wherever time and circumstance take me.

Most of what I know about pet care I learned by parenting

2010-04-10T14:07:00.000-07:00

We didn't have "real" pets when I was a kid. Mom was allergic to fur-bearing animals, so at some point Dad set up a tank of tropical fish. It's pretty amazing how much a person can bond with a fish. Some of them had very distinct personalities that were sweet or funny.

The fish had very specific needs which Brother and I had to learn to meet. I can't speak for him, but I learned important things about responsibility and about life and death from those fish. (We also learned about moderation vs. having too much of a good thing, but that's a story for another day.)

There is a vital aspect of pet ownership that was deeply lacking in our experience: cuddling. Fish are ill-suited to cuddling. (Now that he's a SCUBA diver, Brother might quarrel with the all-inclusiveness of that statement, but for most people I think it's a safe thing to say.) The cuddling of pet fish is not recommended. Yet one of the big reasons for getting a pet for a child is for the child to have cuddle time with that pet.

It wasn't until Daughter was ten that I invited a furry pet to live in our home, and then it was a rat, and it lived in a cage. The idea of having an animal loose in the house was abhorrent to me, so I got Daughter a pet that couldn't be allowed free range, but which breathed air and was big enough to be cuddled. (I know a lot of people cringe at the idea, but domesticated rats make wonderful pets, smart and affectionate as they are.)

What I discovered then was that much of what I'd learned as a new mom applied to caring for that rat. I speculated about how much more easily I might have adapted to parenthood if I'd had the experience of caring for a "real" pet when I was growing up.

It was a big step for me when Tiger moved in. He's a free range cat, not only within the house, but in the neighborhood as well. I remember what a leap of faith it was each time I sent Daughter out the door; now the same is true of allowing Tiger the freedom he wants, and to which he is accustomed. How much easier might it have been to let go of Daughter when she needed me to if I'd previously practiced letting go of a pet?

I'm convinced that parenting has made me a better pet owner. I'm equally convinced that pet ownership would have made me a better parent.

Don't hound our bears!

2010-04-08T16:28:00.000-07:00

Hubby and I attended a rally at the capitol today to protest the latest too-evil-to-be-true development in our complicated relationship with California's wildlife.

The Fish and Game people are considering not only raising the number of black bears that can be hunted in this state, but also extending the hunting season to cover the entire period of time that the bears are out of hibernation.

As if that's not enough, we learned today that ours is one of the states that permits hunters to use hounds in the hunt. Modern "hunters" use high tech devices to track their hounds. The hounds wear gizmos on their collars which, when they tree a bear and hold their heads up for a long time barking at the terrified creature it signals the "hunter" to follow the signal on his GPS device to the bear's location and shoot it out of the tree.

My, what a sporting approach.

While I don't choose to hunt, I don't judge those who do hunt in an ethical way. It used to be that a hunter would not take any female whom they knew to have babies. It used to be that hunters spent hours in the elements seeking their prey. It used to be that hunting bear was a fairly risky pursuit for the hunter.

Apparently, the latest thing is to sit in your warm, dry truck drinking coffee and munching doughnuts while your hounds do the work and take the risks. After all, it's not just the bears who are dying. Some of the hounds are too -- mauled by terrified bears. It takes a lot to provoke a black bear to attack, but when they do they're fast and big and smart and they have very, very sharp claws. The average hound is no match for a mama bear who perceives a threat to her young.

We found this information shocking and sickening. Several states have outlawed this form of "hunting", and we hope California will too. We also hope a public outcry will prevent Fish and Game from expanding the season and increasing the number of permits to hunt black bears.

Ann Bryant of The BEAR League spoke today about a cub they've just taken in. It's a yearling, which means it should weigh 100 pounds, but a poacher orphaned that cub last fall, and it now weighs 38 lbs. BEAR League volunteers are working to save the cub, rehabilitate it and return it to the wild. This is just one example of the fallout from indiscriminate killing of these beautiful creatures.

The California state flag depicts a grizzly bear, but the grizzly was driven from the state in the 1920s by over-hunting. If we allow the black bear to be driven out too, we should be ashamed of ourselves.

The Cat Who Moved In

2010-04-08T16:08:00.000-07:00

After something like a year of working on us, Tiger finally succeeded in getting adopted. As soon as we learned his owner was open to that, the decision was pretty much made. It was clearly what Tiger wanted, it's what we wanted, and in a way it's what his previous owner wanted. The most loving thing one can do, sometimes, is let go. It was clearly in Tiger's best interest to make the move, so we did. It's only been a week, but we're settling in. Cat doors are in transit from the online company from which we ordered them, and we expect them to be in place within a week. Life will become a lot simpler for all concerned after that -- as long as the New Cat In Town refrains from using them.

New Cat is a virile creature with an unfortunate propensity for soaking everything he sees with his very musky effluence. A product that is supposed to use natural enzymes to neutralize said effluence is also on order. It can't arrive too soon. If the repulsive creature enters our home through the cat doors, a great deal of what is welcome and useful about cat doors will be lost. At least we ordered the kind with different locking options. We can set things up so Tiger can go out but not get back in, which will at least ensure that New Cat stays out.

Shopping for cat doors has been educational. I never knew there were so many kinds, including some with fairly high tech locking mechanisms that will only permit cats who are wearing the "key" to pass through. That would be most excellent for any cat with a collar. Unfortunately, the collar has yet to be invented that can be kept on Tiger. So, unless it's possible to insert the cat door "key" alongside the microchip under his skin, we're stuck with manual doors.

Census 2010

2010-03-17T11:28:00.000-07:00

We completed our census form and mailed it back.

I remember the previous census -- the one that asked WAY too many questions. But this one asks WAY too few. From a genealogist's perspective, this census takes a huge step back.

Old census documents provide essential information, such as place of birth, parents' place of birth, date of emigration, how long a couple has been married, and how many children they have had. Old census documents also provide cool facts like occupation and military service -- things that flesh out the names and dates and offer clues to more places to research. Census information is released to the public 70 years after it's gathered -- long enough to outlive most if not all sensitivity issues, but early enough to help people who want to root out their heritage.

This is hardly the most important issue for the U.S. Government to confront, but it does strike me as a lamentable loss of data that will be sorely missed 70 years from now.

Time Change Haiku

2010-03-17T11:14:00.000-07:00

This isn't as timely as it would have been a few days ago when I thought of it. I blame the time change.

Just when I figured
How to use that extra hour
It is gone again

We fell back in Fall.
Deluded that it matters,
We spring forward now.

Feel free to add your own in the comments! (5, 7, 5 pattern)

The Cat Who Was Needed

2010-03-06T16:44:00.000-08:00

Hubby and I are cheerful empty-nesters. We love our children, but are proud and pleased to have them off tending their own nests. We loved our pets, but have been blissfully pet-free for some years now. It is wonderful to be able to decide to go away for a while and just stop the paper, lock the door and go.

Then Tiger showed up and made himself irresistible. Now that he has become quite throughly comfortable with us, and we with him, he spends a good deal of time on our laps. We have recliner chairs for the back yard and even in cold weather we will bundle up to share a warm lap with a warm kitty.

In the months since we've all achieved this level of comfort with one another, my blood pressure has dropped thirty points. Yes, I credit The Cat. He still goes home to eat every night, after the dogs are put to bed, but he mostly hangs out here. Indeed, the dear beast is curled up asleep on the couch as I type, and we're delighted.

Hubby and I were content, just the two of us. Tiger indicated he needed us, but we had no desire for a pet. Little did we know that we needed one. We needed him.

Alpha and Omega

2010-02-12T17:33:00.000-08:00

It's universal, I'm sure, the delight we take in a child's firsts. First smile, first step, first word.... We celebrate. We tell the relatives. It never gets tiresome, the observation of childhood. It never ceases to astonish us just how fleeting childhood is.

For every first, though, there is a last. Yin and yang. Light and dark. Alpha and omega. We acknowledge this intellectually, but we don't like to think about it too much. We don't want to feel what comes in darkness, yet we cannot fend off the dark without also blocking the light. We cannot be whole without both yin and yang.

There is birth and there is death. There is youth and there is age. There is first and there is last.

Our culture views life linearly, for the most part. Sometimes we're philosophical enough to regard life cyclically -- "The Circle Game". But lately I am pragmatic enough to see life as a curve. Moving along our linear life path, we begin small and simple. We grow and become more complex and productive. We peak at some point and then, once "over the hill", we begin our descent and, if we live long enough, we enter our "second childhood".

There, our world becomes small. Our needs become simple, though many. Our need for help from others becomes great and greater until we become utterly dependent. Ashes to ashes, dust to dust, diapers to diapers.

The fine film "Two Weeks" depicts a cancer patient's final two weeks of life. In hospice, the patient participates in the decision to insert a catheter. Her comment is that she never thought she'd feel sentimental about the last time she peed.

Second childhood is about lasts. When do we take our last unaided step? We don't know. Whenever it is, no one knows it at the time. It isn't captured on video or announced to the relatives. When will we eat for the last time? When will we go to bed and never leave it again? What will be the last words we speak?

We don't know.

And so, in stark contrast to the eagerly anticipated firsts of childhood, we face the lasts of age with trepidation and resentment. If we are honest with ourselves, we mourn each loved one's last as much as we rejoiced in each of our children's firsts.

In another fine film, "Dad", the son of a dying man resolves to be present when death comes for his father, to "mark the moment". The deathbed vigil was once common and expected. Without keeping watch, we may miss that moment.

The first breath is marked with a cry; the final breath with a sigh; and we never know which sigh is the last until after it has happened.

Unless it comes suddenly, death arrives on tiptoe. It sneaks in, lingers long, gives ample warning through all of those lasts, and then we discover it has come. In all its fullness of comfort, compassion and blessed relief, death carries us away in tender arms.

At some point, the survivors cry for the last time.

Don't forget to write!

2010-02-12T17:26:00.000-08:00

Since age 10, writing has been my primary outlet during times of trial. Yet I have written very little the past couple of years. Recently, having determined to resume writing, I found I had misplaced my journal.

It was fitting, somehow. In the misplacement of my journal there was the misplacement of a part of me. A part of my Self had been severed and casually, thoughtlessly, set aside and forgotten.

I do not chastise myself for this neglect of my Self. I recognize it and choose to return to the road of wholeness. I will not be whole again in an instant, but taking action has already restored me to the right path.

Shoulders back, head high, I move forward.

It's beginning to look a bit like winter

2009-10-04T22:22:00.000-07:00

In all fairness, snow was predicted. Light flurries mixed with rain, to be specific. What was not predicted was that several inches of snow would fall overnight, producing a 3 a.m. winter wonderland of a white forest drenched in the light of a full moon. Magical!

It was also not predicted that the snow would melt slightly through the morning and then fall again, profusely, through that afternoon. Some of the smaller fir trees look like flocked Christmas trees, only in this case the flocker got carried away. The smallest ones look like they could as easily be garden gnomes grudgingly enduring a very chilly insult.

The back yard is crisscrossed with rodent tracks. The Douglas squirrels have been chasing each other across the snow all day, sometimes moving so fast that one marvels that they leave any tracks at all. They appear to be airborne. But they do leave tracks, all four feet hitting the ground at once, occasionally sliding a couple of feet before resuming their tiny bounding gait. Such secrets the snow reveals which the needle-strewn soil cannot.

The ground squirrels had been out and about before the snow, but now they rest their chubby selves well underground. Only the tree squirrels and chipmunks remain active, along with several jays. A great power struggle rages between Douglas squirrels and Stellar's jays, one side triumphant one minute, the other the next. We think we won't know who wins the war.

The war, of course, is over edibles. That they find anything at all in the blanket of white is a marvel to me. What I know, and suspect they cannot know, is that tomorrow's high is predicted to be 50 degrees, and that by Thursday it's supposed to be 67 degrees. Yes, Autumn is expected to resume shortly, although lows will remain in the 20s at night.

Then again, we were only expected to have a mix of rain and light snow flurries last night....

Dialing for Data

2009-06-30T20:15:00.000-07:00

Out in the woods there are limited options for Internet access. Where we are, the choices are dial-up and satellite. Since we can't afford satellite, we use dial-up. There are Wi-Fi hot spots in town, but they aren't secure connections and they have the very major downside of, well, being in town. We avoid town. Town has tourists and traffic and tourists and noise and tourists and sidewalks and, worst of all, tourists. Ew!

Dial-up is an adventure under the best of conditions, but when one has limited local service, it can also get pricey. Every site is graphics laden these days, so an errand that takes two minutes on DSL easily takes fifteen minutes or more on dial-up.

We don't have the latest and greatest phone lines out here, either. Winter's winds thrust trees down through phone lines with some regularity, and it isn't feasible to replace entire cables every time that happens. So they splice the cables together, and that's fine. We have reliable phone service and that's very groovy. It's just that without neato up-to-date cabling, DSL is no kind of option. Not that it would be any great shakes out this far from it's point of origin anyway.

No, we're resigned to using dial-up here. So today I called AT&T to step up our service from measured local to unlimited local. It's going to cost us about $11 more each month, but since I racked up over $25 worth of overtime on our last bill I figure it will pay for itself in the end. Dial-up still takes a really long time, but at least I'm not counting the coins slipping through my fingers while I wait for pages to load.

It's sort of nostalgic, using dial-up. I remember so well the days when I would click on a link and go take care of a load of laundry and return to the computer in time to see the page finish loading. Those were the days. I was thinner then. Hmmmm....

While I was on the phone making this change, the pleasant lady who was helping me -- Marlene -- took time to look for any discounts for which I might qualify. AT&T is very big on this. They always check for discounts for me, and I know it really means they're looking for additional services to sell me, and I know that's their job, but they don't understand what/who they're dealing with. They ask what I'm doing for TV service out here and I tell them we enjoy a TV-free zone here. They don't get it. They think I mean there's something about this place that makes TV forbidden. Nope. Many of our neighbors have TV here. They have spiffy antennae or satellite dishes. It's assumed we will do whatever it takes to get TV into our place too. No. No, no, no. Even if we could fit a TV into our itty bitty place in the woods, we wouldn't. We LIKE being away from TV. Honest.

Marlene and I actually had a very pleasant conversation, and to her everlasting credit, she did find a discount for me. She requested and got a waiver of the change-of-service fee that would have been about $14. This because I'm a long-time customer. In fact, back when it was Pacific Bell, it was my very first phone company. It was 1979 and I was living in Jenkins Hall at Sac State, and I've been a customer ever since. OMG, it'll be 30 years come Fall.

Aside from that little epiphany, today, Marlene is my hero.

The Cat Who Went Home to Eat

2009-06-18T16:35:00.000-07:00

I'm ready for my close-up, Mr. de Mille.

Our neighbor (Tiger's real owner) was in his yard, so we waved at each other and I hollered, "Seen Tiger lately?"

Getting the ongoing joke, he replied that'd seen Tiger just the night before when he'd gone home to eat. I expressed relief to know he was eating, though we can all see he isn't wasting away. Yes, said Food Guy, he comes home and eats. But, he said, when his daughter was outside and wanted to play with her kitty, Tiger wouldn't cross the street to their yard. So they sat in our driveway to visit with their cat.

After that neighborly chuckle, I told him Tiger had built a nest in our back yard. He wanted to see it, but was in the middle of a project. So, he'll come over another time to see it, and I'll be sure to take a picture of it for this blog, since I know my millions of readers will be dying to see it.

The neighbor right behind us was surprised recently to learn that Tiger is not our cat. Nope, but apparently we're his people. Not that he's getting a lot of discouragement from us....

First there's the furry-face face-off. (Notice here how Hubby's retirement project is coming along. The hair and beard would grow faster, but he has me trim them occasionally, to tidy them up.)

Then there's the endless supply of things for Tiger to mark as his own. Here I tried to capture the intense concentration on his face as he fiercely laid claim to the bottoms of the feet of the patio chairs after we tipped them up to keep them cleaner.

Tiger continues to amuse and bemuse. For all I know, this could be a thoroughly typical cat experience. But I've lived near lots of people with cats and this is the first cat that tried in earnest to move in with me. I figure as long as everyone has a sense of humor about it, we'll be fine. Everyone except the cat. He doesn't have a sense of humor. Sense of superiority, of ownership, yes. Humor, no.

I can't help but pity the poor silly beast.

The Cat Who Never Gave Up

2009-06-14T21:42:00.000-07:00

Because, as I think I may have mentioned previously, I have never had a cat, I hope I might be forgiven for being slow to catch on to the entertainment potential embodied in a flashlight. Properly enlightened, I won't be so clueless in the future. But I've gotten ahead of myself.

The evening we returned from Tahoe, Tiger didn't miss a beat. We pulled into the garage, offloaded our bikes, and wheeled them into the back yard where we were at once greeted by that familiar "meow". He seemed, as near as we could tell, quite pleased to see us. I say this because he did not glare at us from a sphinx-like pose. No, he walked toward us as if he might greet us. He wasn't in a hurry to rub up against us, so I guess he was a tad peeved.

However, it turns out we beat his owners back from their trip to Yosemite. Only by a few minutes, but in cat time, who knows? He looked across the street at his actual owners, then continued to follow us around as we unloaded the car. We coaxed him a little, saying, "Look Tiger! There's the Food Guy!" This had all the impact of a fallen eyelash in the middle of Arden Fair Mall. Finally, with the car empty, our good-byes said, and the garage door closed, Tiger crossed the street to the Food Guy.

So much for the provider of food being the Favored One.

Speaking of which, I was out in back off and on today to hang clothes on the line, remove them, repeat. Tiger was out there meowing his fool head off each time. The last time was this evening, and I poked my head indoors and told Dave he was being summoned. Tiger continued to meow with passion until Dave came out. Suddenly all was well.

Add to that the flashlight game, and it seems to have been a good end to the evening. Tiger is satisfied, it seems. Doors and windows are open and lights are on, yet we hear no plaintive call from one portal after another. Is seems too good to be true.

You know what they say about things that seem too good to be true....

Cabins and CUFFA and Reason

2009-06-02T21:13:00.000-07:00

This place -- this refuge -- has been a part of my life for longer than I can remember. We who by our parents' luck and timing came to inherit the US Forest Service Cabin Program might too easily take it for granted.

We who cannot afford skyrocketing permit fees nor the cost of removing our cabins from Forest Service land nor find buyers willing to sign up for the mess the Forest Service has lately made of the program -- we cling to each precious season. We do not know which might be the last.

There is a thing called CUFFA (Cabin Users Fee Fairness Act) that's supposed to protect us from fees that are so high that many will have to give up their cabins. It's not working. What's really fun about this is the fact that, according to our permits, if we can't sell our cabins and also can't afford to keep them, we're still expected to pay to have them removed if we have to abandon them. Cute, huh?

Think that's bad? Consider victims of the Angora Fire whose cabins burned on Forest Service land. Even if they cannot or will not rebuild, they still have to pay for removal of the charred remains of their mountain paradise.

So, here we are in a recession or worse. People are losing their jobs and their homes left and right. Tent cities to which the homeless resort are removed by authorities who confiscate and destroy the few possessions the occupants have. All of that and more, and here I am whining about the Forest Service and how it treats cabin owners.

But do you think I'm allowed to make my cabin available to a homeless family? Nope. Not even rent-free. I could sneak them in for a few nights, maybe, but I can't provide meaningful refuge for them here while they get back on their feet. It's against the rules. I can't even live here myself, let alone lend the place to a family in need.

Paradise it may be, but it comes at some cost, as it should, but at what cost? Reason? Fairness? Common sense?

The Forest Service has a really complicated process for determining cabin user fees. It costs them hideous amounts of time and money to slog through the paperwork. Without a doubt, it keeps accountants and attorneys employed, and isn't that a load off my mind!

Some think these fees should be based on property values comparable to those of privately owned lots in the area. Never mind that we don't actually own the lots, have almost no control over the outside appearance of our cabins, and are bound by rules and limitations that no one in their right mind would buy into. Using that formula, some cabin users are being charged more in user fees than what we pay for the mortgage on our primary residence. Ridiculous! No, that's not the way to go.

I don't mind permit fees. They're necessary, like taxes. I want fire protection, so I don't mind paying the taxes that pay for fire protection. I want to keep our cabin, so I don't mind paying the fees that are necessary to cover my share of reasonable expenses for running the cabin program. Emphasis on reasonable.

So.... Figure out what it costs to run the cabin program (minus the cost of the existing cumbersome fee figuring and assessment process) and split it evenly among the thousands of cabin users throughout the US.

I don't think there are many cabin users who don't get that we are privileged to have these cabins, and I don't think too many cabin users expect to get this privilege for free. But considering it was the National Parks/Forest Service people who came up with this idea about a century ago and eagerly invited people into the cabin program, I don't think it's quite kosher to price people out of something they have come to love through several generations of occupancy.

Our forests are deeply stressed by overuse by humans. No question. But our forests are not stressed by cabin users. The Forest Service needs to turn their energy toward the truly damaging influences of humans -- both tourists and permanent residents -- who display a casual disregard for the health and well-being of our forests, our waterways, and the creatures who preceded the humans.

Just a note about the indigenous humans who preceded the European humans in this place. If I were allowed to turn my cabin and the 1/3 acre upon which it sits over to the native people, I'd do it in a heartbeat. But I'm not allowed to do that; none of us are. If and when the cabin program is extinguished, this land will not be restored to its original condition and it will not be returned to its original occupants. My guess is it will be converted to yet another campground. If you think that's a good thing, then you are unaware of what happened to Camp Richardson after the USFS got control of it. Talk about stressing a forest!

Well, I'm Phedocia, this is my soapbox, and that's my diatribe for today. See the comments section under this entry? That's your turn.

A Day for Reading and Musing

2009-06-02T20:52:00.000-07:00

Between chapters, I sat back and looked up at the trees through the large picture window. A glint of color caught my eye, and I studied then how the sunlight on a trembling raindrop barely clinging to a branch sent prisms of light dancing through that solitary sphere. It was my own personal light show -- light, water and eye placed just exactly so, for just a minute or two -- and I wondered whether a moment like that had anything to do with the advent of Christmas tree lights.

Thunderstorms rolled through off and on all day today. During brief appearances by the sun, the local feathered and furred critters got busy. I don't know how they occupy themselves when the rain falls in torrents like it did today, but we mostly sat inside and read.

The absence of TV is a wondrous thing. At home we turn to it far too often to fill our unprogrammed time. (Yes, I see the pun, although it wasn't intentional.) Here we read, play board games and even (gasp!) converse. It's a very good thing.

The Cat Who Didn't Come to Tahoe

2009-05-31T14:57:00.000-07:00

I haven't written about Tiger for a while. He remains a nearly constant presence at our home.

I should clarify something I said in my previous writing about him, about discouraging him by marking our territory. It isn't that we want to discourage him from visiting. It's that we want to discourage him from using our flower beds and lawn as his lavatory. We're getting mixed results from our effort in this regard.

We've learned a pertinent fact about Tiger's history. It sheds much light on his uh... condition. After the original mastiff died, the family adopted a rescue mastiff who was expected to do quite well with cats. The animals were introduced and the mastiff promptly clamped his teeth onto Tiger's head. The humans had to pry Tiger from the mastiff's jaws, and while Tiger sustained no physical damage, the trauma was major. The newly adopted mastiff was quickly un-adopted and then they got Hank. Hank is a very gentle giant, but he really likes Tiger. He wants to play with Tiger. Tiger has Post Traumatic Stress Disorder. Tiger does not want to play with Hank. Nobody blames him one bit.

As far as Tiger is concerned, I'm pretty much decoration. Hubby is the Favored One. Whether because he's male or because he's furry, I don't know. I am tolerated in a pinch. If Hubby is clearly not making an appearance, Tiger will deign to rub against my legs, allow me to scritch him behind the ears, and he'll even step right in the middle of whatever I'm working on. But if Hubby is available, I'm the also-ran. Tiger will climb up on Hubby's lap and gently bump the top of his head against Hubby's soft beard and purr a little. They're cute together. Tiger likes Hubby; Hubby likes Tiger. It's a match. I'm only mildly jealous.

On Thursday we loaded up the car to leave for Tahoe, and this concerned Tiger very much. He watched as things went into the car, as bikes were loaded onto the car, and as we locked up the house and pulled away. Bye-bye, Tiger.

Tiger knows what bye-bye means. Morose eyes watched us drive away.

Less than ten minutes later, confused eyes watched us return. Hubby has a recurring health issue that caused his pain to jump to 8 or 9 on the ten-point pain scale as the car bumped along toward the freeway. Hubby can be a tad stubborn about health issues, and he was pretty determined to get to Tahoe on Thursday no matter how much he had to suffer to do so. His one concession was that I had to drive. However, there is only so much suffering a loving wife can endure in her hubby, so I made the executive decision to turn around and go home.

Tiger studied us warily as a doubled-over Hubby stumbled into the house and as I removed the bikes from the rack and unpacked the few things we would need for one more night at home. We were optimistic that we'd be able to leave the next day, once Hubby's distress was mitigated.

Sure enough, Hubby woke up feeling much better. So, with the help only a cat can give, we reloaded the car and hung the bikes on the back. Again we locked up, said bye-bye to Tiger, and drove away. Tiger seemed far less concerned this time. He knew we'd be back in ten minutes.

Two days later, we're at Tahoe and occasionally wondering how Tiger's doing without us. Mostly we wonder what Tiger's doing without us. We know what happens when he gets mad at us. There may be some clean-up to do when we return.

I wonder what Tiger would make of the pile of bear poo in our back lot.

Wild Life Among Wildlife

2009-05-31T14:41:00.000-07:00

Big drama along the nearest edge of the meadow last night, involving ravens and coyotes. Our best guess is there's a yummy carcass over which they're battling. We've never heard such howling a carrying on -- not around here. A friend was over for dinner and a game of Scrabble, and just after the sun set and the clouds over the ridge were turning pale pink and orange, we heard several ravens squawking and fussing in a way Hubby and I had never heard before.

Our guest said some ravens had been doing just that when she spotted a bear cub up a tree. (Cute story, actually. The cub climbed a dead tree, knocking limbs off as he climbed up. The ravens were at the top of the tree having a complete fit while the frightened cub studied on how he was going to descend without the help of the branches he'd used going up. Presumably he eventually figured out that those sharp things protruding from his paws were useful for just this sort of situation, but we don't know the end of that story.)

The three of us went out to the porch in hopes of spotting a bear. Ravens were squawking and swooping between trees, and we heard an occasional stick snap, but we couldn't see what they could see. The creepy sound of a coyote breaking into a howl was followed by another and still another, all very close by, across the road from us.

Our guest said coyotes can change their voices to make it sound like there's more than one of them, but these three different voices overlapped. Things got quiet for a bit, aside from the ravens, and then we heard a very distant howl followed by one close by to our left across the road, followed by another close by to our right across the road, followed by still another farther off to our right.

Soon, one of the coyotes walked down our road, from right to left, and when he was adjacent to the area the ravens were guarding they dove at him until he changed direction and disappeared into the woods at our left, toward the creek.
Eventually it was quiet enough and cold enough that I retreated to the cabin, followed by the others, and we had our Scrabble game. (Hubby and Guest jointly pledge to take me down in a rematch.)

When I finally dragged my vacationing body out of bed at 10 am today, the ravens continued to holler up in the branches over the same area that was apparently in contention last evening. By daylight, between widely spaced and distant rolls of thunder, Hubby and I walked into the woods under the cautioning squawks of the ravens. Having agreed to retreat if the ravens grew hostile, we ventured to learn what all the fuss had been about. Knowing at least four ravens and three coyotes were involved, we imagined it must be a pretty good kill -- surely a deer, or a rabbit at the very least. But no. We stood amid strewn black feathers, spotted a pile of coyote scat and deer scat, but no meat whatsoever. No meat, no bones, no beak, no feet, no fur, no blood. Just feathers.

As we puzzled over our find, the ravens grew more agitated, so we withdrew. We're left with the sense that this was an awful lot of fuss to make over a dead raven. Continuing to muse, we wonder whether the raven whose many feathers are lying on the forest floor is not dead, but injured and/or humiliated and hiding in the dense foliage waiting for new feathers to grow. That would better explain the noisy vigil kept by the ravens who remain in place to warn off all comers.

We're used to ravens being around, but they normally appear for a short while, then move on. This is the first time we've known them to remain and to defend a place. It occurs to us there might be a nest -- it is spring, after all -- but assuming ravens nest in trees, where do the coyotes come into it? A fallen hatchling or a fledgling on the ground would certainly be of interest to coyotes. But is even a grown raven enough meat for three coyotes to share? A hatchling or a fledgling would be merely an appetizer for one.

Strictly amateur observers, we wonder on.

Undersea Voyager Project

2009-05-31T14:21:00.000-07:00

Composed Saturday, May 30, 2009 -

After two false starts, we finally got to Tahoe yesterday, and we're so glad because there was a neat lecture at the college Friday evening. The presenter was Scott Cassell, president of Undersea Voyager Project (underseavoyager.org). They've been exploring the depths of Lake Tahoe and he reported last night on what they've found so far.

Get this: Jellies in Fallen Leaf Lake, jelly-like critters that have their origin in the Yangtze River in China and defy classification, and trees over 2000 years old and tall as sky scrapers standing straight up on the bottom of Fallen Leaf Lake.

And this: Rubicon Point -- a chunk of granite as massive as half dome and just as steep-faced -- but mostly submerged. This guy has gone diving in the most fantastic ocean bottoms for decades and here he's all excited about what he's finding in Tahoe! If you don't know about him, do visit the web site. The Tahoe project (TAHUV) is part of their training and preparation for circumnavigating the Earth with submersibles, conducting scientific studies and reporting their findings to the world.

What got him interested in Tahoe was learning of a discovery that several thousand years ago the land area that filled what is now McKinney Bay broke free in a massive landslide and created a tsunami-type wave that at one point was 300 feet high! It forever changed the lake, of course. Tsunamis that happen in lakes are not actually called tsunamis; they're called something else and they slosh back and forth and all around and wreak havoc again and again along every shore. That woulda been something to watch -- from a safe distance. Wow!!

Some good news: He says recent occupants of the Tahoe basin are taking relatively good care of it. He found way less new trash than he expected. One of the amusing trash-related finds was stuff that was tossed out a couple of generations ago had been bagged up and tossed into the lake where they've sat for all this time. Yucky, right? Well, yeah, except the bags wore away and left blocks of beautifully preserved bottles, tins and shoes and stuff dotting the bottom of the lake.

A humorous bit was that he'd been told to keep an eye out for brown trout, which he was told can grow to 18". He thought someone was pulling his leg -- that they were talking about human excrement. With his medical background he knew it was remotely possible for that to be 18" long. But it turns out that there really are brown trout swimming around down there and he did see some fairly good sized ones.

The downer part of the lecture was when he said he predicts that if we don't shift course the oceans will be dead in 25-50 years, and that when they're dead we're dead. I thought that sounded extreme and alarmist, but maybe that's just me in denial. Considering only about 5% of the ocean floor has been explored, it seems likely to me that there's a lot of life being lived out there that might not be as impacted by us as we fear. Again, that might be my denial. In any case, I'm 100% for saving the oceans.

Cassell's message is mostly one of optimism. First, while he had expected Tahoe's locals to be a bit annoyed by the project's presence, the project has instead been hugely embraced. Volunteers have excitedly supported the project, funds have been donated, and the head of the science department at the college where this talk was given said this is the first time in campus history that they had to turn people away from a campus event for lack of space.

Also, Cassell says we're doing a good job of saving Lake Tahoe, and that if we can save Lake Tahoe, the world can save the oceans.

Finally, I'm especially enthused about Cassell's plans for making their progress trackable in real time by school kids around the world. They'll have a direct line from the submersibles to the ship on the surface, of course, but the ship will in turn send a signal to a satellite, which will bounce the signal to classrooms where students will be able to see what's happening under water, ask questions and get answers from the people in the submersibles. They hope in this way to excite young people to pursue degrees in science and engineering and get on board the save-the-ocean train. (So to speak.)

The Cat Who Needed Therapy

2009-05-07T16:46:00.000-07:00

Tiger is cute. Tiger is sneaky. Tiger is now at our house nearly all the time.

I've never had a cat. I gather it's not unusual for a cat not to take "no" for an answer. Hubby has had lots of cats, and he concedes that Tiger's a little over the top in this regard. He used the word "neurotic". I'm thinkin' "personality disordered".

We had been assured that Tiger never likes to be shut up anywhere -- that he had in fact escaped from the garage at his actual home one night when they locked him in so they could get him to his routine vet appointment the next day. Our history with Tiger has been that he occupies our garage -- especially the nice warm hood of our car -- while we do stuff in the garage with the garage doors open. When it's time to close the garage, Tiger is quick to make his escape. We have relied on that history.

You can imagine my surprise when about 9 pm last night, I went to the garage for something and found Tiger curled up and meowing on the top step to our kitchen door. I assumed we'd left an exterior door open, and moved to usher him out and close it. The door was shut. Naively, I said, "Oh poor kitty! You got locked in!" I went to open the door so Tiger could escape.

Tiger stood and looked at me as if I was the most clueless creature on earth. Uh-oh.

"It's time for you to go home," I said.

"Meow?" said Tiger.

I walked out the door and Tiger followed me. I gave him a quick scritch, said "bye-bye" and went back inside, shutting the cat out.

"Meow!" said Tiger.

Faithful readers, this was only the beginning. It was a muggy evening. It was time to open the doors and windows to let some cool, fresh air in. I opened the back door off our dining room and secured the screen door latch. Tiger was there, meowing indignantly, and in the darkness I heard the unmistakable sound of fluid hitting the threshold and the solid (thank goodness!) base of the screen door.

I reported this series of events to Hubby, who delicately responded, "That little sh*t!" He said that when he had taken out the garbage several hours earlier, he was ready to close the garage door and called out to Tiger to make sure he was outside. It's a noisy door. Tiger hears it, and he's gone. No Tiger appeared, no Tiger meowed, so Hubby naturally assumed Tiger was outside.

That bratty little cat had actually gotten himself locked in on purpose!

As the evening went on, Tiger was moving from one open portal to the next, around and around the house, meowing pitifully. Hubby wondered whether Tiger would be keeping us up all night. "Not me," I said. "I wear earplugs!" (Hubby won't wear earplugs. Claims they hurt his ears. Poor Hubby.)

I looked across the street at Tiger's actual home. Both cars were in the drive and the porch light was on. "Don't they worry about him?" I wondered aloud. "I mean, it's after 9 and he hasn't come home to dinner."

"He's a cat," said Hubby, as if this explained everything. Maybe it does. I don't know. Like I said, I've never had a cat.

Next I said, "Maybe he's like Lassie trying to warn that something terrible has happened to Timmy. Maybe we should check on his family."

The look on Hubby's face is hard to describe. Suffice to say it involved peering at me over the top of his glasses.

"OK. Fine." I said. "It's not like they don't know where to look for him."

"Exactly," said Hubby. "Besides, they can hear him."

No kidding. The whole county could hear him.

I'm happy to report that Tiger did not keep Hubby awake all night. By the time we turned in, the house had cooled nicely, the windows and doors were shut tight, and once the lights were off and the humans were boring, the meowing ceased.

Today I washed the back step, the threshold, and doors with the old cage cleaner we have left from our pet rat days. It neutralizes pet odors. Tiger watched grimly.

Hubby's taken to collecting his, um, effluence and pouring it around key parts of the yard. Hey, it keeps bears away in the woods, so it's bound to work with cats. Right?

What office supply are you?

2009-04-26T21:15:00.000-07:00

Yet another goofy-yet-strangely-enlightening game I got from ChicBanjo's blog. She's a white board, and it turns out I am too.

What the heck does that mean? This:

You are a dreamer, a visionary, and a straight up idea person. You are very creative. Even if the things you think up are a bit wacky, they often are brilliant. You are an adept problem solver. You are always tossing around dozens of ideas. You would make a good artist, designer, or architect. You do best when work feels like play.

The Cat Who Would Be Rescued

2009-04-26T17:37:00.000-07:00

Our local no-kill cat shelter is called Happy Tails Pet Sanctuary. At Happy Tails, cats live safely without fear of you-know-what for as long as needed. (Actually, the other you-know-what -- the non-lethal one -- is required for all.) Once properly humiliated, they roam the interior of the shelter until they're adopted or until they live out the natural course of their lives.

Some cats, of course, are proactive about these matters. Something about their home life shifts and off they go, scouting for a better situation. Our neighborhood's current scout-about is Tiger. As I understand it, Tiger's home life has shifted several times in recent years. First, the person he owned married someone who was owned by a dog -- a mastiff, no less -- but they all learned to live together in harmony.

These two humans are the nicest pair of humans you could ever hope to meet, and the whole neighborhood was thrilled when they produced a tiny new human. The tiny new human was very sweet-natured, just like her parents, but she did require a great deal of attention that had once belonged to Tiger. Tiger was not pleased with this turn of events, but adjusted about as well as could be expected. Meanwhile, the mastiff, having lived out the natural course of his life, disappeared from the scene, and Tiger settled in to enjoy the attention that could now be rightfully restored to him.

About the time the tiny new human became self-propelling, and therefore problematic, Hank arrived. Another mastiff. Hank is as sweet-natured as his humans, but he's a mastiff, and so he's as big as an African lioness. In comparing notes with the humans, it seems the arrival of Hank was the trigger that sent Tiger scouting for another arrangement.

First he gravitated to yards that were dog-free. We noticed he was spending a lot of time lounging around our yard, and that was fine with us. We like cats as long as we don't have to feed them or take them to the vet. There were three other cats who tended to visit our dog-free zone regularly, but Tiger was different. When we entered the yard and saw Tiger, he didn't bolt over the fence. He walked toward us meowing. We found that charming, and so we greeted him and gave him scritches behind the ears, and all was well.

Then Hubby retired and started spending a fair amount of time outside, even on weekdays when the humans officially owned by Tiger were at work and day care. Hubby and Tiger have bonded. Tiger likes me too, but he especially likes Hubby. As retirement neared, Hubby started letting his hair and beard grow, and three months into retirement, he's fairly fuzzy. Today Tiger gently pressed the top of his head against Hubby's beard and purred. In fact, today is the first time we've heard a purr out of Tiger. We've heard him meow plenty, and occasionally sort of sing, but purring is new.

So, even though all he gets from us is attention, a fresh water source in the form of a makeshift bird bath, and access to the garage when we happen to have it open, we seem to have been adopted. We like this arrangement. We get all the fun and none of the responsibility. It works for us. The official humans have a sense of humor about the whole thing, so while "Happy Tails" we're not, all is well with us and with Tiger.

The Mountain Climb

2009-04-20T21:45:00.000-07:00

The climb up Tallac is still on -- just one year later than originally planned. First, there's the foot trouble. Then there's the 50+ extra pounds I carry under my skin. We hiked at Redwood Park in Oakland yesterday and I learned that climbing long inclines with all this blubber is just not something I can do all the way up a mountain.

So... There are 52 weeks in a year, and I'm currently shedding pounds at a rate of about a pound a week, so giving it another year seems quite sensible.

This is not a setback! This is just a switchback along the trail!

Let's play ball!

2009-04-12T17:12:00.000-07:00

Jeepers! Three months since my previous post! Guess the feeling of bloggishness comes and goes.

We spent Easter Sunday at a River Cats game. It was their fourth game of the season, and our first. They've won one game so far, but more about that in a minute.

Spending Easter at the ball park is not our habit, and I can't say it will become our habit, but it was interesting. It was a coincidence, it being Easter. It was the first game we could attend where we could be reasonably sure of not shivering. Of course, it being a day game in Sacramento, we roasted instead. Whatever. On Thursday we would have drowned. Nothing's perfect.

Dinger the mascot was there, of course, but so was the special guest of the day. According to the announcer, it wouldn't be Easter without the easter bunny. Oh really? I'm so sorry you think so.

Ah well, the bunny's involvement was mercifully brief, and this year they have a live organist (Gus the Organ Guy). That he actually plays a electronic keyboard that merely sounds like a real theatre organ is only a little disappointing, since the silly noises he plays actually correspond to the foul balls hitting things. It's pretty cool. And when they give him the spotlight he plays old fashioned songs like "Roll Out the Barrel" as easily as he plays jazzy variations on "Take Me Out to the Ball Game".

Gus is all right. Keep Gus. Lose the bunny.

We weren't there for the bunny or the eggs or even the organist. We were there to see a game and root for our team. We saw the game, and we dutifully rooted for our team. The Cats lost to the Tacoma Raniers 6 to 3, and (ouch!) deservedly so. Yes, it pains me to say it, but our team played poorly. Tacoma did some very fine hitting and fielding, and I occasionally cheered them despite myself, just because it was fun to see some good plays.

We love our team, and we will continue to root them on, but whatever ailed them today, they've got to get past it and play some real baseball! They've pulled themselves up and been champions before. They can do it again.

Let's go, River Cats! Let's go!

Peeve Is A Word

2009-01-13T13:16:00.000-08:00

Pet peeve of the day: "word verification". It's a part of the security system here at Blogger that helps protect us from incursions of spam and other scary things in the cyber world.

If you've left a comment on almost any blog, you've encountered an image showing twisted characters and the instruction to "type the characters you see in the picture above". That's fine. I've got no problem with that. My picky little peeve is that they call it "word verification".

"Gametawd" is not a word. "Endogne", "lisolu" and "feouce" apparently are words in other languages. "Inglyp", while not really a word is an actual thing, properly written as "InGlyP" and having something to do with genetics.

I have to give Blogger credit. At least we aren't being asked to type in randomly generated combinations of letters and numerals and calling that "word verification".

Still, just once I'd like to be asked to type in a word I recognize. Since that's not going to happen, can't they call it something else?

OMG, I just, like, wasted five minutes of my life blogging about this stupid pet peeve. Can you believe that?? Time is our most precious commodity, and I'm wasting it whining about this minuscule peeve when I could be doing something truly worthwhile and meaningful like, like, like.... doing taxes!

Unexpected Treasure

2009-01-12T20:23:00.000-08:00

We subscribe to Netflix. It's cheap, it's convenient, and now and then it provides a profoundly unexpected blessing.

When we add a DVD to our queue, the Netflix elves (using magic math) come up with recommendations for other items we might enjoy. A few weeks ago, Netflix recommended the 2005 French film, Joyeux Noel. Ah, but it didn't say it was a French film, and it didn't give the title as "Joyeux Noel". It gave the title as "Merry Christmas" and I failed to note that it was a foreign film. Netflix guesstimated that we'd give it 4.5 stars, so I read the description.

Inspired by a true story, this heartwarming tale unfolds on Christmas Eve, 1914, in the midst of World War I. As the French, Scottish and German soldiers prepare to open their presents, a momentous event occurs that changes the destinies of four people: an Anglican priest, a French lieutenant, a world-class tenor and his soprano lover.

That was enough to hook me, so I placed the film near the top of our queue and, shortly after Epiphany (and therefore out of season) it arrived in our mailbox.

I have to say the description barely does the film justice. It is gorgeous and hideous, uplifting and wrenching, comical and tragic. Above all, it is heroic. The acting, the directing, the cinematography, the sets, the costuming and the music are all first rate. However, it is the film's central message of our common humanity that makes it not only a truly great film about a moment in world history, but also a must-see during this time of wars upon wars all over our globe.

Hubby and I rarely bother with the director's commentary feature offered on many DVDs, but after viewing the film we did go back and listen to Christian Carion's comments about the closing scenes that deal with the fates of the three units, and I encourage others to do the same.

Some say, and I aver, that Christmas, done properly, lasts throughout the year. Whatever day of the year you happen to read this, give yourself a Christmas gift and see Joyeux Noel. Better yet, gather a group and view it together. Provide tissues.

Peace be with you.

Injured Would-Be Climber Vows Return to Training

2009-01-01T21:36:00.000-08:00

Plantar fasciitis. That's a kick in the pants. Rest, ice (brrrr!), different shoes, arch supports....

Down, but not out!!

Three

2008-12-12T22:53:00.000-08:00

Three miles. We're hitting some decent grades (for Sacramento, anyway), and Hubby finally feels a little challenged. We're on target!

Alas, storms are predicted through the coming week, beginning tonight or tomorrow, so we'll see how it goes. We can always be rainy day mall walkers, if that's what it takes, although I note that the mall is singularly lacking in grades. The one we're willing to visit during the holiday season doesn't even have stairs!

Flat walking is better than no walking. And there's a Mrs. Fields.... Slap me! Besides, I'll be in Oakland for part of the week. Oakland definitely has grades. It's got straight ups and downs. It's got scary stairways that climb the hills between the windy roads. (Shudder!) No indoor mall close by, but Brother's house has stairs. Carpeted stairs. Sweet.

A Light Read

2008-12-09T16:14:00.000-08:00

I just finished reading a book given to me by Daughter for my 50th birthday: I Still Have It... I Just Can't Remember Where I Put It - Confessions of a Fiftysomething, by Rita Rudner. It's definitely a light read, and that's a good thing. Life sometimes calls for light reading and, let's face it, life's been rather heavy for everybody lately.

Rudner's snippets of life after 50 range from silly to sweet. One of my favorite sweet ones concerns her favorite pet dog -- about his role in her home, her act, and her life. A silly chapter about potty training rang some rusty old bells for me and reminded me of how grateful I am to have started the parenting journey at age 27. I can't imagine having the stamina now.

Among the actual chapters in the book are scattered miscellaneous Rudner quotes. My absolute favorite is this:

I had the worst birthday party ever when I was a kid. My parents hired a pony to give rides. And these ponies are never in good shape. This one dropped dead. It just wasn't much fun after that. One kid would sit on him, and the rest of us would drag him around in a circle.

You might wonder what that has to do with being fiftysomething, but Rudner does include one chapter about children's birthday parties, so it's not out of place. It's just that most of us got our kids grown and gone before age fifty. She discusses that, too -- the fact that most of her friends have "been there, done that" and forgotten most of what they knew about parenting young children.

Marriage, parenthood, home ownership, fame, fortune and fun are the offerings of I Still Have It..., so read it and tell me what you think.

Thank you, Daughter!

Guy Things

2008-12-09T13:05:00.000-08:00

When Hubby's head whips around and he exclaims appreciatively, I know he sees a vehicle. Due to his encyclopedic knowledge of vehicles, he can virtually always name the make, usually name the model, and often name the year. He can frequently explain what is different about one model year compared to another. This information fascinates him.

Some vehicles drive him down memory lane -- ones he's owned, ones he wishes he'd owned, ones his offspring have wrecked -- perhaps even evenings he's spent in them, though I'd as soon not know.

I understand the memory lane thing. My first car was a 1973 Plymouth Gold Duster. It had a 318 engine and a catalytic converter that drank more gas in a month than our Camry drinks in a year. But it really knew how to take a steep hill or to pull out of a tricky situation. It had sparkly brown paint and a gold alligator-type vinyl roof that did not rot or bake off, despite the lack of a garage for most of the years I owned it. It was speedy, it was pretty, and it was mine.

I can even get sentimental about old Comets because I remember Mom driving us around in one, about old Newports and Sevilles too, because Dad drove those. I can't tell you what Dad's old brown car was, but I'll bet my brother can.

It's a guy thing.

My brother can sing just about every TV theme song we ever heard as kids, and hubby nearly always wins games that involve recalling rock or country (real country) music titles and artists. He can tell who's playing guitar on a recording just by listening, and when he watches his favorite performers, he recognises their guitars. In both cases, he can generally tell you who made the guitar, when and where it was made, what it cost new, and what it's worth now.

I own three guitars, a dulcimer and a two pianos. I can tell you with certainty the maker of one of the guitars, and I can tell you the upright piano was a wedding gift to my mom's parents in about 1924, but that's about it. My lack of knowledge about the instruments baffles Hubby.

It's a guy thing.

For all that attention to detail, you'd think very little would get by someone like that, but you'd be wrong. I had a foot of hair cut off on Thursday, leaving it shoulder length. My gal and gay guy acquaintances notice the change immediately. Hubby? He noticed Sunday night. He did sort of a double take, touched my hair, and said, "Nice."

I said, "Are you just noticing?"

I think he winced slightly when he said "yeah".

I said, "I wondered how long it would take you to notice!"

"Friday?" he said.

"Thursday." I said.

There was a time when I would have been deeply hurt by this, but I'm a bit more grown up now. He remembers my birthday and our anniversary. He almost always shops in time to have something for me to unwrap for Christmas. He notices my moods and my "owies" and cares deeply about both. He occasionally takes notice of an outfit I'm wearing. He always notices when I'm not wearing much, if anything, and he still likes that. So, if he takes three or four days to notice my haircut, it's no big deal.

It's a guy thing, and I'm really glad he's all guy.

Two and a Half

2008-12-07T15:08:00.000-08:00

That's miles walked in one day, aiming for fitness to climb Mt. Tallac in June. So far, we're walking on virtually flat terrain, but that will change when we get to Three. Stay tuned and stay fit.

Beware Blathering Bloggers

2008-12-04T18:06:00.000-08:00

This entry is a caution to any who might want to rely on Americans for Limited Government and/or NetRightNation.com as sources of reliable information from and about neoconservative activities and views.

Bill Wilson, President of Americans for Limited Government sent me an email this week. "Dear Fellow Blogger," he said, "It is my distinct pleasure ... to invite you today to become a key member of the exciting new conservative 'bloggers central,' NetRightNation.com."

Wow! The president of ALG wants me to be a key member!

"At ALG, we recognize the critical role you as a blogger play in gathering, assimilating, and disseminating news and commentary. And I, personally, am deeply grateful to you for taking the lead in fighting some of the most important battles our country has faced over the past decade, and more."

The prez needs lessons in grammar.

"That's why I am so pleased to announce that NetRightNation.com is providing bloggers like you, the mainstream media, politicians, and other opinion leaders free, instant access to nearly 60,000 conservative blogs nationwide. And counting."

He needs them badly.

After describing all the nifty features that will be available at some indefinite future date, he concludes:

"Above all, we want to make sure NRN is all that you, an important member of the conservative blogosphere, want it to be. ... Thank you for all that you are doing. ...."

Where do I start? First, I want to know how many fellow bloggers with whom I'm personally acquainted got this email. Assuming very few of them received it, my second question is this: What keyword in my blog triggered their software to send it to me? Clearly, this ALG that's setting up the NRN hasn't actually read my blog.

Or have they?

Did I get this email because in my blog I confessed to agreeing with Gov. Schwarzenegger about one thing? Did I state in here somewhere that I think abortion is a bad thing, even though I'm pro-choice? I'm very uncomfortable with the idea of being mistaken for a Neoconservative!

Next question: What do I do about this? Do I write back and point out the flaw in whatever process led them to contact me? Do I sign up for NRN (it's free) and see how long it takes for someone to notice and give me the boot? Or do I just blog about it and do my bit to make people aware of what They are up to?

Clearly, I've opted for the latter, and as I wrap this up I will inform you, dear reader, that none of the links in the ALG's email went where they seemed to be going. All of them go to various areas of one location, tk.publicaster.com. It's not that that's a crime; it's just not nice. It's the kind of thing phishing messages do to trick you into giving up personal information. It's not good "netiquette".

Publicaster, for its part, is an email marketing service. So, ALG seeks to market neoconservative views via NRN, which is being made available through Publicaster.

For their parts, the typed but unlinked URLs for Get Liberty and NetRightNation do, indeed, go to Get Liberty (Americans for Limited Government) and NetRightNation, respectively.

The one I like is NetRightNation, where the day I visited there was a prominent link to a blog article about the "Power of Palin". Just reading the various headlines on their main page is pretty amusing.

They also have a section called "Conservative Twitter", where I must say the tweets are as lame as everyone else's. (Twitter might be my nominee for worst new product or service of the decade. I'm just sayin'.)

So, what I really want to know is whether someone's setting up a counter "bloggers central". How about NetLeftNation, NetCentristNation, or NetApatheticNation? NetConfusedNation? NetOverwhelmedNation? I'd join NetRunningAroundInCirclesScreamingWhatDoWeDoNowNation.

Seriously, folks, if it's accurate, well-articulated discourse about national issues you want, the blogosphere is, by and large, not the place to find it. That is, except at my blog, and my brother's, and the ones we recommend.....

Lullabies Go Bye-Bye?

2008-12-03T09:37:00.000-08:00

It's a dark day for old fogies. If we want to croon to our grandbabies we're going to have to catch up on today's pop music scene.

I heard it first on Good Day Sacramento, our local source for hard news. Naturally, I then Googled the subject and found that, at least in the UK, and according to one survey, it's true. Traditional lullabies are out. Something called "Patience" by something called "Take That" is in -- the number one favorite of British mums.

The good news for the likes of me? Elvis Presley's "Love Me Tender" made number 5 on the list.

I will say that I'm not a strict traditionalist. "Rock-a-Bye Baby", with all its jarring imagery, has never been on my list of things to sing to infants. But I sang "Hush-a-Bye" (aka Mozart's Lullaby) to Daughter in utero, with the plan of singing it in the delivery room and beyond.

The idea was to reassure her that she was still with me, even though a bunch of pushy muscles had expelled her from her dark, warm, quiet room into a bright, cold, noisy place where she was compelled to breathe air and wear clothing. (In her case, a vacuum extractor, forceps and a lot of screaming were also involved.) But it worked. She knew my voice. She knew the tune. She was consoled.

I'm sure current pop songs will have the same effect; it's just that the grandparents don't know them. I guess "Hush-a-Bye" and "All the Pretty Little Horses" will have to be the special songs only the white-haired ones sing to today's newborns.

Is that a bad thing? No, but to me it's a sad thing. The songs I sang to my wee one were the songs I remembered my mother singing to me. It was an intimate moment when at the end of each day Mom would stand in the hall outside my brother's and my rooms and sing. I remember seeing her in the half light, leaning against the doorway, her head tipped back against the doorjamb, her voice reassuring in its sameness night after night after night for oh-so-many nights.

I pictured her there as I sang to my child, cradled in my arms or drifting off in her bed. My head tipped back on the back of the overstuffed chair where I sat and sang night after night after night for oh-so-many nights. I at last felt my mother's fatigue and understood her need to know she would have at least one hour at the end of the day that didn't include her children. Now and again a tear would slip from one eye as I realized one day my own child might fully understand the lullaby moment as she cradled her own newborn. What a sweet, sacred thing.

Some day a grandchild or two may come along, and I will sing my mother's songs, which were her mother's songs, and who knows how far back they all go? The songs will include ones not just every family knows -- "Christopher Robin Is Saying His Prayers" and "A Song for a Winter Night" (if memory serves re. the title).

Our children, in their wisdom, may have lists of forbidden lullabies -- ones with violent images, sexist language, references to God and prayer. We might do some rewriting to allay the young parents' concerns. Other songs we might have to settle for just humming the tunes. Perhaps we'll be able to learn the particular child's favorite pop lullaby.

In lieu of grandchildren, we can go to the local crisis nursery or the hospital's NICU, where lullabies are also needed. Elders need babies as surely as babies need elders, whether they're related to each other or not.

Lullabies are among the universal things shared by most humans. It makes it possible for extended families, neighbors and friends to step in and ease the strain of separation when parents cannot be with their children for an hour, a day, or even a life time.

Lullabies are important bridges between generations and cultures and countries. They are the sizing in the fabric, the bones in the corset, the wires in the plush bunny's ears. Such archaic references seem fitting here.

Words and tunes and fashions have evolved over time, and that's OK. Whatever we end up singing, the lullaby moment will endure, and that's what matters, for all concerned.

Tough Times; Smart Times

2008-11-26T15:18:00.000-08:00

NPR is great. You never know when you'll hear something truly wonderful. There I was, driving from one errand to another, and NPR was truly wonderful again. I heard this commentary by Mike Adamick. There was much to love about his commentary, but one of the gems was this bit about, well, my mother... and my kids:

My grandparents were raised during the Great Depression and spent the rest of their lives hoarding rubber bands, bacon grease and batteries. It used to fill me with empathy and embarrassment that they would actually rinse out Ziploc bags and reuse them. "Poor people," I thought. "Don't they know there's always more?"

I was raised in the Disposable Generation of Styrofoam boxes and plastic water bottles. If something ran out, you simply got a new one.

But this year, we are re-evaluating not just how we spend our money but also the lessons we pass on to a new generation.

Does any 50-ish person not have a depression-era-impaired parent? Do any of us not know young adults and teens who give no thought to the amount of waste they produce, let alone where they put it? Or who expect to wear new clothes and consider thrift shopping a hobby rather than a responsible way to shop?

I'm proud to say both Son and Daughter seem to be conscious and unspoiled -- at least when I'm watching. I know Daughter takes great pride in the amazing outfits she creates at thrift stores and consignment shops.

I love Adamick's approach to clothing his child during a recession, and I think it's time for me to get reacquainted with my sewing machine and make recession wear for myself!

It's Big. It's cool. What is it?

2008-11-24T22:26:00.000-08:00

It was the morning of Nov. 20 and I was walking in my brother's Oakland neighborhood. I'd been taking power walks daily as part of my training for The Climb. During each of those walks, however, I'd noticed plants I liked and wanted to consider for our yard. So on this morning I treated myself to a 1 mile stroll, photographing the plants of interest. I was nearly back to my brother's house when I noticed an enormous bird on top of a chimney. The sun had only just gotten through the fog some 10 minutes before, and there sat this great big bird, apparently sunning itself.

I was fascinated. The bird seemed aware of me, but unconcerned. After I took thirteen (!) images of it, I decided I'd probably gotten something interesting and useful, so resumed progress toward my brother's house. Coincidentally (or not), the bird turned in the very direction I was moving, spread its wings wide and sunned its back side. I only took five shots of that pose. The best two of my images are below.

Its featherless head suggested to me that it was either a buzzard or a vulture, but Hubby thinks it might be a condor. My hope is that one of my faithful readers will be able to identify the bird for me. (You can email me, but it adds to the fun if you post a comment.)

Big Biz Isn't All Bad

2008-11-15T18:01:00.001-08:00

Sears isn't my first choice for a place to shop. I try to shop at small, locally owned businesses as much as our budget permits. But I just learned that Sears is going way beyond what is required of them by law to minimize the impact of active duty on the financial condition of reserve troops.

By law, they are required to hold reservists' jobs open and available, but nothing more. Usually reservists take a big pay cut and lose benefits as a result of being called up. Sears is voluntarily paying the difference in salaries and maintaining all benefits, including medical insurance and bonus programs, for all called up reservist employees for up to sixty months (five years, which is up from their original commitment to do so for up to two years).

I suggest we all make a point of shopping at Sears and tell a manager why we are there so the company gets the positive reinforcement it deserves.

I have verified this information at the following web sites, and will also post this to my blog (sueinsacca.blogspot.com) in hopes of hearing about other companies going out of their way to support our troops and their families.

http://www.snopes.com/politics/military/sears.asp
http://urbanlegends.about.com/library/bl-sears-reservists.htm
http://www.truthorfiction.com/rumors/s/sears.htm

All Of It

2008-11-09T13:01:00.000-08:00

Countless tiny deaths,
Each grieved,
Pile up on me
Like a great mountain of caskets --
Tiny, but so numerous
That should I clamber to the top
I might see Everest.

I forgive you for everything.
All of it. I mean it.
Be at peace about that.
In the end, I find,
What matters is the love.
All that matters
Is the love.

Countless minute details
Daily
Press upon me
Like a heaving, hovering tower,
Of correspondence --
Mere sheets, but so numerous
They threaten to topple down.
I might be smothered.

I forgive you for everything.
All of it. I mean it.
Be at peace about that.
In the end, I find,
What matters is the love.
All that matters
Is the love.

A few treasured moments
Imprint
Upon my memories
Like a sweet organic scrapbook --
Fleeting, but so sacrosanct,
I pray I can contain them for my time.
I might lose my mind.

I forgive you for everything.
All of it. I mean it.
Be at peace about that.
In the end, I find,
What matters is the love.
All that matters
Is the love.

Two

2008-11-05T23:36:00.000-08:00

Two miles today!

Post Election Mood Swings

2008-11-05T23:22:00.000-08:00

On NPR today I heard an interview with a woman who was disappointed that John McCain had not been elected president, the reason being that she's a Republican. So far, so typical. But then she went on to say that she was proud of America for electing someone who's African American and comes from a modest background instead of from one of privilege. That, I thought, was a classy statement.

I'm proud of us too. I'm happy. I'm optimistic. I really, really look forward to seeing what this remarkable young man can do for our country.

I'm also bummed. A bunch of the people and the issues that I supported here in California did not go my way. In particular, Proposition 8 passed, calling for an amendment to our state constitution limiting the definition of marriage to that of one man and one woman.

The No on 8 campaign had one incredibly major flaw: it failed to show gays in their ads. How dumb is that? We were up against a lot of hatred. It generally seems to me that hatred is born of fear and that fear is born of ignorance, but what did the No on 8 campaign do to dispel that ignorance? Little or nothing, from what I saw.

Why were we able to elect a black to the presidency? Because most white people in this country no longer fear or hate black people. Remember Archie Bunker? He hated black people until he got to know a few. Suddenly things weren't so clear cut for him. By turning out to be normal people they upset his ignorant bliss and forced him to overcome his fear and hatred.

When I first started getting to know real live gay people and talking with them about their lives and their families I learned something very important. They're just like me. We have the same relationship issues, the same home repair issues, the same child rearing issues... All that, with one radical difference: They were routinely harassed just because they were gay. Their property was vandalized. They were threatened.

Hardcore (hard-hearted) conservative Christians are not likely to shrink from their stance that gay relationships are sinful, so they aren't the ones the No on 8 people needed to target. They needed to target people who were perhaps on the fence about the morality of the issue and who would respond to the issues of separation of church and state, the issue of civil rights -- equality for all -- and the issue of legislating morality. (You know -- theocracy. Like Iraq.)

Those are the ones who needed to be shown the faces of the people who stood to be impacted by Proposition 8. They needed to hear their voices and those of their children. They needed to see what life is like for same-sex couples in our culture. They needed to see and hear what loving and committed same-sex couples are like -- that they're pretty much just like loving and committed hetero couples, except for the part about being targeted for hate crimes.

I don't know what the No on 8 campaign manager was thinking, but he or she or they have some apologizing to do. Next time, maybe No on 8 can line up Obama's campaign manager to lead the charge.

Meanwhile, I have no regrets about standing in the rain with like-minded people waving No on 8 signs and receiving supportive honks and waves and thumbs up from passing cars.

We got WAY more of those than we did the other -- the thumbs down, the middle fingers up -- (would Jesus do that?) -- the f-bombs -- (would Jesus say that?).

We even got hot chocolate from a passer-by who couldn't bear to see us all dripping and shivering and singing and smiling through the downpour without doing something for us. She swung into Starbucks and bought a whole flat of small hot chocolates and passed them out to us. (Would Jesus do that?)

It's been a joy for Hubby and me to represent hetero couples who think gay couples should share all that married life has to offer. As hubby says, "Why should straight couples do all the suffering?" Funny, Honey.

But seriously, despite this truly frustrating defeat, most of today I felt buoyant. President Elect Barrack Obama! Today I am immensely proud to be a U.S. citizen.

Boo!

2008-10-29T15:32:00.001-07:00

We're trying something new for Hallowe'en this year. We're having fun, and we're having it cheaply. Nothing compares to the family fun of assembling decorations from materials on hand vs. going out and buying something. (Any resemblance to persons actually living in our home is purely intentional.)

Our scarecrows have papier mache heads (spray starch & tissue paper), our actual clothes stuffed with newspaper, plus the dried up leaves from our irises. The table decor is made from the pitcher I use for watering outdoor potted plants, stuffed with the dried up stalks from our irises.

Watching our clothes fill up with rumpled paper and then having them lying around looking like dismembered bodies before we set them outside was most amusing.

So, with the candy we bought at Dollar Tree, means we're all set.

We just hope no wind comes along between now and the end of Hallowe'en night. Wind would be a bad thing.

A Reunion

2008-10-28T17:40:00.000-07:00

Last week we got to do something pretty special. Really special, actually. We got to visit the Genji screen.

My brother and I grew up with the Genji screen. It hung on the dining room wall, where we took it very much for granted for a very long time. Sternly, we were warned never to touch it; never to brush against it; and certainly, above all, never to get food on it! Mostly we obeyed, and the screen remained in admirable condition for the 30 or so years it hung on that wall.

By the time I was 20-something, I knew enough to take time to look at it closely and admire the artistry. I was especially taken with the delicate features of the characters depicted. A single brush hair was used to paint the eyelashes and other very, very fine features. I marvelled about that.

I knew it depicted a story, although I confess it was only recently that it stuck with me that it depicts a scene from the Tales of Genji -- a remarkable work in that it is regarded as the first published manuscript ever.

Mom lived in Japan for a few years (about 1955-57 I think) where she worked as a civilian for the U.S. Army directing leisure activities for G.I.'s stationed there. She also did a lot of shopping. I rue that I never wrote it down, but Dad was able to recite just how many boxes and crates and suitcases and such were shipped from Japan his home in anticipation of my parents' January 1958 wedding. Mom acquired a lot of cool things, and one of them was the Genji screen.

1950's Japan was a place of great struggle as they rebuilt their economy after the war. Once wealthy families were selling their treasures for whatever they could get. Mom got the Genji screen for about $100.

With Dad gone and us kids moved out, Mom decided it was time to leave her big house and provide a proper home for the screen. She donated it to the Berkeley Art Museum, where it was appraised for some staggering sum. Maybe my brother remembers, but I think it was over $10 grand. It was something. It was wonderful. It was a fine example of it's kind. They were thrilled to get it.

Mom's in her twilight years now, and when Daughter treated me to a visit to the museum it occurred to me that Mom might not get to see "her" screen again unless I could arrange for a private viewing. Thinking it would be tricky, costly, or maybe even unheard of, I was pleasantly surprised to learn it is not an unusual request, and I set it up.

Driving Mom to "BAM" last week, she knew only that we were going for a surprise that would involve several family members. Later I learned that as we neared the museum she figured we were going to see some sort of artifact, and she began to hope it would be "her" screen.

Yes, I got choked up. It was like visiting a dear old friend. So very familiar, and yet the museum representative, Lynne Kimura, was able to tell us things about the screen that we had never known. For one thing, it's now about two centuries old. She was wonderfully helpful and knowledgeable and accommodating.

It was a happy reunion indeed!

One and a Half

2008-10-24T19:33:00.000-07:00

We walked one and a half miles today, so we're steppin' it up. Yeah, we're talkin' baby steps here, folks. But these baby steps will reach the top of Mt. Tallac in June. Rah!

Sometimes You Can Go Home Again

2008-10-21T17:24:00.000-07:00

All around me are the metallic click-click noises of hummingbirds. Once in a while one or two will fly out or, better yet, perch on a branch where I can marvel yet again at how impossibly small they are.

It's the deck at my brother's home in the Oakland hills. Well removed from the hubbub that is Oakland, I can hear vehicles in the distance. Absent is the drone of air conditioning units. The sounds of life are detectable here. The hummingbirds. People moving about in houses and yards. Children and infants playing or crying or wanting more.

More, more and more again.

To continue my training while I'm here I've been walking the half mile to the end of my brother's street and back again. There's no such thing as a small house in this neighborhood, but some of these places are genuine mansions. Here and there along the street, though, remain empty places. Like gaps in the grin of a Jack-O-Lantern, only old foundations remain to suggest the former presence of grand homes. One has sweeping walkways down the hillside where gardens must have flourished.

People died here in the Oakland Hills Fire of -- what year? How does one forget such a thing? Driving back from my adopted home of Sacramento, it was unspeakably bleak -- the blackened hills and foundations where neighborhoods once stood. The fire came within blocks of consuming the mansion built by my great grandfather at the turn of the century. (No, not this century!) The mansion left the family in the 50's, but it still has a place in our hearts. I attended an event there three decades back, but the generation that remembers it being the family home is quickly aging and passing from us.

Walking along this street where so much history has happened touches me, but never so much as when I pass one of the spaces between homes and get a view of The City, the bay, the bridges....

Once upon a time I lived in a house that had a view of all that. My own bedroom had a view of three bridges: the Bay Bridge, the Golden Gate and the San Rafael. I could see Mt. Tamalpias, Angel Island, Alcatraz, and Treasure Island. I distinctly remember when Coit Tower was San Francisco's most noticeable landmark of the night sky from across the bay. I remember when the Bank of America building went up, and riding in the very fast (and nauseating) elevator to the top, where I took snapshots with my instamatic camera. I remember when the Transamerica building went up. I remember when there was no Sutro Tower, and I've never stopped considering it a blight.

Last night the stage was set for a lovely sunset. I know it so well: the fog creeping over the distant hills, the thin high clouds sweeping up and over and around as if an artist's brush had placed them just so. The sun was dipping lower and I had my camera ready.

I've had a life in Sacramento longer than I had a life here, and yet, walking that street and seeing that view today reminded me that on some level this place will always be home. And somewhere deep inside that's starting to be OK with me.

Tallac or Bust

2008-10-17T15:35:00.000-07:00

I was at the chiropractor, fresh back from Tahoe, and mentioned that I'd been promising myself all my life that I'd climb to the top of Mt. Tallac.

He said, "You gotta do it."

I looked at him for a beat and said, "I'm turning 50 in November."

He said, "You gotta do it."

I said, "You really think I can?"

He said, "Well, you'll have to train, but I'm sure you can do it. I'll meet you at the trailhead and climb with you!"

How cool is that??

So when Hubby came home I told him about the idea and suggested he could train and climb too. I thought he'd laugh at the idea, but he was game.

So, we've started training. The target is to climb in late June, which gives us eight months to train, which kinda works well, since the climb is about 4 miles up and 4 miles back. Eight miles in all and eight months in which to prepare.

We walked one mile on Wednesday evening. For Hubby, that's nothing. For me, that's something, but not huge. I felt it. I'm used to strolling, so walking at a good clip for one mile without pausing was something. As soon as that's a cinch, we'll increase to two. And so on. And we'll add hills. And by the time the snow melts at Tahoe we'll be walking those eight miles on what passes for hills in Sacramento with ease, so we'll take the training to Tahoe. Hubby will be retired by then, so we can take the time we need to train at that altitude. And then the day (yet to be determined with precision) to climb Tallac will arrive. Up we'll go.

Straight up by the end, I'm told.

So, what if I get there and find out I can't do it? For starters, if we train well, I don't think that will happen. But if it does, I'll celebrate that I got as far as I did.

Then I'll try again.

Palin Poll

2008-10-15T13:01:00.000-07:00

NOW on PBS is conducting a purely unscientific poll, asking the question: Do you think Sarah Palin is qualified to serve as Vice President of the United States? The answer options are Yes, No & Not sure.

You don't have to register; no hoop-jumping required. However -- and I really, really like this however -- they use cookies to prevent people from voting more than once.

To vote on this question, go to: http://www.pbs.org/now/polls/poll-435.html

To vote on each week's new poll question, go to: http://www.pbs.org/now/ and scroll down to the bottom right portion of the page.

Homeward Bound

2008-10-13T10:51:00.000-07:00

We awaken this morning to "segue day". After a week of pretty much doing what we want when we want, it's time to pack up, load the car, winterize our little "haven of bliss", and return to normal life.

Normal life for us will have a significant difference when we return to Sacramento today. On Wednesday our two huge old ash trees were removed from our front and back yards because they had become hazard trees. This did not come as a complete surprise, of course. When we bought our home 14 years ago, one of the first things we did was to have an arborist out to evaluate the trees and make recommendations. The oak tree someone had planted right beside the back fence had to go, as did the fruitless mulberry in front. In place of the fruitless mulberry we planted a Japanese maple that has developed beautifully in the shade of the old, old ash.

The ash trees, we were told, were on borrowed time, but if we pruned and sprayed and watered the roots deeply, we might get another 5 years enjoyment out of them. We followed instructions and even installed a wonderful old fashioned swing in the back tree for our then 9-year-old daughter. Every few years we had the arborist out again to evaluate, and he'd suggest another pruning and say we'd probably get yet another 5 years out of them.

This year, though, was different. The old swing was resting on the ground because the tree was beginning to lean toward the house (thanks in part to our power company's diligent and exuberant "pruning" of the far side of the tree to keep its branches out of their lines). The tree in front had started to drop limbs during wind storms and was clearly going to do so repeatedly. It was only a matter of time before the back tree squashed the house and the front tree squashed someone's car or worse.

I know I will cry when I see the very large empty spaces where those trees once graced our home. On the other hand, I'm reading Animal, Vegetable, Miracle by Barbara Kingsolver, and I'm realizing the new possibilities for a garden that is no longer almost completely shaded. While the front ash will be replaced by a red maple and the back ash will be replaced by a persimmon tree, we're going to have a lot less shade for a long time. In Sacramento, that's a bad thing unless you want to grow food in your yard. We're pretty sure there's some local rule against growing food in the front yard, but that's where we really need shade the most, so we're OK with that. In the back, though, we can do what we want as long as it doesn't moo or attract mosquitoes, so the possibilities are compelling.

It will be a bittersweet homecoming today.

It will be a bittersweet departure, as well. It always is. Always. But this time is different. Within the next couple of months we will receive our new, updated permit fee bills from the US Forest Service, and the fee is expected to have gone up 400%. That's quite a jump, but we've figured out how to cover it, so we're OK for now.

The trouble is that all of these Forest Service cabin lots are being reassessed, supposedly at "fair market value" upon which our fees are based. They were a tad slow implementing the 1999 assessed fees, which is why we're only now getting the fee raises, but they have just begun to reassess the lots again, and the bad news we're hearing from places where the process is completed is that cabin owners are being charged fees of as much as $25,000. That's annually, starting now, and that's just not possible for the typical cabin owner.

The typical cabin owner is the child or grandchild of the original builder of the cabin. Most of us are members of the dwindling middle class who have forgone the second car and the larger house in order to hang on to the wee bit of paradise with which we grew up. Most of us recognize that it is an uncommon privilege to have this kind of access to the forest, and we do not take that lightly. We share our access with friends. We carefully guard against the mistreatment of the forest that we witness in the more publicly accessible forest areas. We teach our visitors about the forest and wildlife.

So, in the months to come, if you hear much (or any) ado in the press about cabins and CUFFA and fairness and such, that's what it's about. Meanwhile, we're winterizing and locking the door and wondering whether next season will be our last to enjoy this cherished place.

Back to normal life. I think, in fact, the only thing normal about normal life is the perpetual deviation from what comes to seem normal. For me, lately, normal life is about loss. Some sudden and unforeseen, but primarily slow, withering, grinding, exhausting loss. Perhaps it is why I haven't blogged from March until now. Either I've been too busy or too sad to blog about what is real in my life. How much loss and sorrow should one inflict on the readers of one's blog? I'm thinking, not a whole hell of a lot if you want folks to keep reading.

So, perhaps the place of the blog in my "normal" life is to be a record of the small joys, triumphs, and awakenings that come with loss. There have been many, and they have not been put down anywhere that makes them accessible to others, and that might not be fair. The tapestry we're weaving in our lives is not one color. It is many, and it includes threads of silver and gold. Such a fine tapestry should be hung in the entry to one's home. So, I will endeavor to hang my tapestry of words here in my blog.

If it starts to get maudlin, tell me. I need to know. Everyone needs a wake-up call sometimes.

While It Melts (Or Doesn't)

2008-10-11T18:15:00.000-07:00

Hanging out at our place today, one would think all of the region is blanketed with an inch of snow. Everything right here is white. And cold. Very cold (for Sacramentans).

So, we mostly stayed inside and played double Monopoly. That's what we call it, anyway. Each of us selected two tokens and played as if we had four people, which is way more fun than playing with two. This was an experiment, and it was fun and interesting. First off, keeping track of which token we were playing at a given moment proved to be a challenge for us. Oddly enough, when it came time for wheeling and dealing, it proved far simpler to cut deals between our own two tokens than between one another's. It was confusing and silly and, as he always does with any form of Monopoly, Hubby creamed the other players with ruthless abandon.

(Oh yeah. He also creamed me at checkers earlier. But I want it known that I always beat him at Boggle!)

That took hours, and by the time we had finished, cabin fever had set in and we decided to take the trash out, which means a quarter mile walk to a bear proof bin. We donned our boots and jackets and woollies and stomped out through the crusty snow. Crusty, not slushy, so you know it was in the mid 30's at most, right? We get about 500 feet down the road and suddenly there's very little snow. We wander around a bit and discover the meadow on the other side of the trees from our place has almost no snow. We return to our place, and it's Winter Wonderland again.

So, it seems our little haven is a unique place that sucks in snow and holds onto it far longer than, say, in town, where it melted within hours of falling yesterday. With night falling on snow that has barely started to melt away, we know we'll awaken to another white morning tomorrow. With a predicted low of 17°F tonight, the road will be a sheet of ice like it was this morning, but once the temps are up in the 30's the roads will be safe, even for Sacramentans, to dive, and we'll have a nice outing.

Meanwhile, Christmas songs are singing in my head.

While It Snows

2008-10-10T17:59:00.000-07:00

The first thing that must be clearly understood is that we live in Sacramento. We live there on purpose. One reason we live there is that any hint of snow in Sacramento is headline news. We are not snow people. We appreciate snow for the life-giving water it brings. We appreciate snow for it's beauty and for the stillness that seems to come with it. We are not fond of walking in it. We loathe driving in it. One particularly nasty snow saucering accident has made me not even want to play in it.

Still, for people who live in Sacramento, having snow arrive at our mountain retreat is a treat. It causes me to stand at the window, watching with awe and delight as the soft white stuff wafts down, growing a pure white blanket on everything it can reach.

Yes, it was pretty darned exciting for the first hour or two. Since then, there's been a lot of reading and web-surfing and emailing. There's been a game of Parcheesi (Hubby won), eating, drinking hot liquids, stoking the fire, several impromptu belching contests, and now a bit of blogging. Do Sacramentans know how to have fun, or what?

Cinnamon Bear

2008-10-09T19:48:00.000-07:00

At my brother's request, here's a picture of the cinnamon bear so tormented by "Joy". He's about two years old. He apparently has a year old sibling who is black and I'm told their mom is brown, although I didn't see her. The cinnamon bear is the only one I photographed successfully.

Someone with way more patience, way more talent, and WAY better equipment was able to photograph all these bears and more. He's Jon Paul, who owns a gallery at South Lake Tahoe. We met him at the creek and visited his gallery today. What a talent! Treat yourself to a visit to his web site: http://www.jonpaulgallery.com/.

Nature Buffs vs Tourists (or "Ode to Joy")

2008-10-07T19:09:00.000-07:00

It's really cool that people want to see the bears fishing kokanee salmon out of Taylor Creek (near South Lake Tahoe). That they would put on warm clothes and drive out on a frosty morning and scurry up and down the east bank to keep tabs on the bears on the west bank speaks to the basic affection and curiosity we two-leggeds tend to have about our four-legged cousins.

We can probably credit the numerous nature programs on PBS for that. But where PBS programming has failed is in teaching nature-watching etiquette that is important to both two-leggeds and four-leggeds. For courtesy, for safety, and for animal welfare, PBS needs to produce a nature-watcher's guide.

It isn't usually easy to spot bears fishing, because they're supposed to be afraid of us, and unlike the glowing screen in the living room, bears don't stick around while people yell at and about them in person. Those of us who spend hours quietly watching and waiting for the chance to watch bears being bears are pretty disgusted when some loud-mouth comes along and messes it up for us.

At Taylor Creek it's relatively easy to see bears fishing right now because they're incredibly hungry and the salmon are plentiful as they gather at their spawning ground. The bears are incredibly hungry due to several unusual influences that are best saved for another day. The point is, the bears are unusually hungry.

When unusually hungry, bears can overcome their innate fear of humans long enough to snatch a fish out of a stream. That is, if the humans mind their manners. The bears don't seem to mind if the humans hang out and quietly photograph them from the opposite bank, but when Joy Turner shows up with her camera phone, they retreat.

Joy Turner, for those out of the loop, is a character on the sitcom "My Name Is Earl". Joy takes loud, pushy and ignorant to a whole new level. After an hour of us shivering and waiting this morning, the bears came, and so did "Joy". After the cinnamon 2-year-old bear retreated from her marching, bellowing form, she stomped toward us, declaring, "He isn't afraid of us. He's just annoyed."

I made eye-contact, raised my finger to my lips and quietly said, "You'll get a better look if you're quiet." Alas, the stomping and bellowing continued in the direction she'd last seen the bears moving. She had ignored me.

We decided to give up and come back the next day. Walking away from the scene, we discussed how the words ignore and ignorant have the same root. I felt a lot more compassion for ignorant people before I realized that fact. Now they just annoy me.

Nope, they don't SCARE me. They just ANNOY me. Got that, Joy?

We reached the footbridge by the highway only to find that "Joy" had somehow looped around and beat us to the spot, where the cinnamon youngster and his darker presumed sibling were in the water. Helpfully, Joy yelled to the crowd, "There are two cubs there!" she said, pointing. "And their mamma's over there!" she said, pointing across the highway. A gentleman leaned toward me and muttered, "And they LOVE fresh meat!" To which I replied uncharacteristically, "Toss her in!"

Meanwhile, the frustrated bears beat another retreat into the woods.

Yessir, Joy and her camera phone were keeping close tabs on that family of hungry bears. Patient nature lovers with real cameras, including several pros, could only watch and wonder. Would she never give up and shut up?

We don't know. We got in our car and drove away, agreeing that from now on the expression "oh joy" would have new meaning for us.

Ah, but I forgot perhaps the most important part of this story. "Joy" had a small entourage -- another woman and a young child. Yes, "Joy" was training up the next generation of her brand of nature buff.

Oh joy.

The Choir

2008-03-21T21:12:00.000-07:00

This new piece -- I'm not that good at sight-reading!
Guest soloist was my aspiration; I never craved your baton.
I see you sitting in a lonely seat,
Not director, not audience, not chorister.
You lift your arms to little effect, and they fall frailly to your lap.
It's your baton. You know it. I know it.
But it clattered to the floor when your grip grew weak, and the choir hushed.
Someone has to make the music; it does not make itself.
With all due respect, solemnity, honor, duty,
Exasperation, resentment, guilt, resignation,
I wave your baton at one choir, and my own at another.
Two choirs, two pieces -- one long, cacophonous interlude.
You slowly, slowly retreat offstage.
One day I will gratefully release your baton.
But I will miss your choir's song.

Primary Considerations

2008-02-06T16:51:00.000-08:00

I'm a registered Democrat. (Yes, it is possible to be a Christian and a Democrat.) So, by the time "Super Tuesday" rolled around pretty much everybody I like had already dropped out and I was left with two viable options.

The only exciting thing about those options was that one was a woman and the other was black. Aside from their ethnicity and gender, the main thing that seems to distinguish these two from one another is their opinion of universal healthcare. (In case you missed that microsecond of news coverage, the white chick is for it and the black dude is not.)

As abhorrent as I find the "Bush, Clinton, Bush, Clinton" prospect, I ended up voting for universal health care. But there's one other aspect of that vote that is significant for me.

Women won the right to vote in this country in 1920. Black men won the right to vote in this country in 1870. Think about that, if you haven't already. Black men got the vote 50 years before women of any color in this country. Considering the poor opinion white Americans generally had of black Americans in 1870, what does that say about the opinion men had of women?

Somehow, regardless of the personalities involved, it does seem just and fair for a woman to become president before a black man does. I would not, however, like to see 50 years pass between election the first female president and the first black president. More like 4 to 8 years, I think, would be nice. And if the first black president also happens to be female, then so much the better.

Some day we'll elect a female of non-white heritage who is not heterosexual and is of some faith other than Christian. Well, perhaps in my daughter's lifetime, anyway.

Remember -- we're supposed to be a melting pot.

Soles4Souls

2008-01-19T16:55:00.000-08:00

Here's an organization that has a neat slant on making the world a better place. Check out the Soles4Souls site.

Added March 21, 2008:
It turns out they'll even take shoes without partners. So, those lone flip flops we fish out of the river that have plenty of wear left in them -- that's a new aspect of our recycling thing.

The Twelve Days of Christmas

2007-12-26T20:50:00.000-08:00

For those of you unfortunate enough to think that Christmas was over by December 26, I have wonderful news! Christmas began on the 25th.

The four weeks leading up to Christmas were Advent -- a time of preparation and anticipation. That's right. Despite the carols playing incessantly everywhere, the presence of Santas in every mall, the lights and inflatables littering yards and houses, the shedding trees in uncounted living rooms... Despite everything Madison Avenue wants you to believe, Christmas started Monday night, at midnight, Christmas Eve.

Some will tell you it's the arrival of a baby born in a stable that starts off Christmas, and that's certainly a lovely tale. But more importantly, it's the birth of hope, the restoration of faith, the promise of deliverance -- the arrival of the light of life, Emmanuel, "God With Us" -- that starts Christmas.

The first day of Christmas is December 25. Whatever your true love gives to you on the twelve days of Christmas, insist upon starting on the 25. Never mind that there's considerable doubt about the actual date of the first Christmas in Bethlehem -- that it may not have taken place in Winter at all. No, that's all story, and so what? We've decided that December 25 is Christmas, so start the count on that day, and make merry. Sing the carols with full hearts. Exchange gifts with friends and loved ones. Make a difference to a charity or two or ten.

Tradition holds that Christmas is the time during which the shepherds starting telling people about what they'd witnessed in the fields and in the cow pen. What have you seen and heard and learned? Tell someone!

When you reach day 12, it will be January 5. Traditionally, the twelve days of Christmas are the time that three wizards from lands to the East of Bethlehem followed portends in the sky and made their way to the stable. More importantly, it is a time for us to find our way to truth, to sit with it, to take it in, to make it part of us.

January 6 is the day we call Epiphany, and begins the Christian season of Epiphany. Epiphany is a tricky word to spell. It's easier to spell the word that defines it: "Aha!" Yes, aha! As in, "I see the light" or "I get it now" or even "d'oh!". Tradition says this is the day the wizards or wise men or magi or kings or whatever arrived and saw for themselves what was taking place. It is the day they presented gifts of great value and symbolism to ease the way of this family.

More importantly, it is the day we pack away the trimmings of Christmas and begin to take our "aha!" into our daily lives, allowing ourselves to be transformed in attitude, in habit, and in spirit. It is time to speak of what we have witnessed and hear what others have witnessed. It is a time for the shepherds and the kings of modern times to move toward one another as equals as they come to bear witness to the miracle of Christmas.

Epiphany is the season during which we are reminded that the wizards returned by a different route rather than confirm for Herod the location of this infant king by whom he felt so threatened. That decision led to the horrific massacre of the innocents. Herod sent his soldiers to Bethlehem to kill every male child who was the right age to possibly be the feared newborn king. By that time Jesus' family is said to be safely living in Egypt. It's a terrible tale. Could the wise men have known this would happen? Would they have done anything differently had they known?

More importantly to us, this is the time we are reminded to make choices -- some of them profoundly difficult -- that drive our impact on family, on neighborhood, on workplace, on community, on world. What actions can we take that are for the greater good? What opportunities are set before us that require hard choices? What sacrifices are we willing to make in order to leave a place better than we found it?

You'll notice that the New Year starts during Epiphany. Those resolutions we make and quickly break are the modern and inadequate version of Epiphany. No matter our resolve, those resolutions cannot stand on their own. It is not enough to decide to make a change for the better. It is necessary to make a plan, to line up a support system, to break the goal down into manageable parts. Fortunately, Epiphany offers plenty of time for this process, so there's no need to rush. Epiphany slides into what is called "ordinary time" which in turn precedes Lent -- the lead-in to Easter that begins with Ash Wednesday.

You see the pattern, right? It's all about building something on which to build further. The Way is the process. There is no great moment of resolution when we arrive and we're done. As long as we draw breath, we are challenged to grow, to learn, to be better and do better. In particular, we are reminded by Charles Dickens, we are challenged to fight ignorance and poverty at every opportunity. The exercises of Advent, of Epiphany, of Lent prepare us for that fight.

Other faiths may call this process other names. They certainly have other legends to illustrate their ideas -- to give depth and color to their stories. Every one of those stories I've heard has been as wondrous and challenging as the stories with which I grow up a little more each season.

Some say Jesus is the reason for the season, and for Christians that is true. But there are plenty of reasons to go around. I pray we can all sit together from time to time to honor one another's reasons and to agree that spending money and most especially that running up debts is not the reason.

Come let us reason together. Let us believe together. Let us work together. Let us eradicate ignorance and poverty together.

Someone told me about a bumper sticker recently:

"God is too big for one religion."

Amen. Whatever your religious heritage, live it well.

The Other Side of Cancer

2007-12-26T14:07:00.001-08:00

I'm old enough to remember when cancer was "the 'C' word". It wasn't even discussed in the abstract, let alone addressed as an issue with which any given person was dealing.

Cancer has impacted our family deeply, primarily through the loss of my father and my cousin. Cancer continues to impact family members and friends, but as I think about it, I know a whole lot more survivors of cancer than I do victims.

Not to minimize a terrible disease, but today I rejoice that there are so many better ways to discover and treat cancer than there were even just a decade ago. Today I celebrate Bill, Cathy, Christy, Cindy, Claire, Davis, Georgeann, Jim, Lori, Pat, Patricia, Sheila, Susan, & Win -- and those are just the ones who've come to mind as I type.

Just Ducky

2007-12-15T21:13:00.000-08:00

If you happen to be teaching (or studying) genetics and need a field trip idea, I've got just the place for you: McKinley Park in midtown Sacramento. There is a rather nice duck pond there with all the duck amenities and lots and lots of seemingly happy ducks and geese and turtles and flying rats. There one sees plenty of the typical mallards, but there is one mallard there now with a certain distinction:

Yeah, I know the one in the foreground looks weird. I'll get to that. For now, see that cute little tuft on the other one's head? We know where he got it. The same place these got theirs:

...and so on:

We've been watching this for several generations, starting with one peculiar duck we dubbed "Fuzzhead". Fuzzhead was just a duck like any other duck except he had a great mound of feathers protruding from his head, much like his offspring just above, which we believe to be a first generation child of Fuzzhead.

Fuzzhead was obviously different, but was never shunned by the other ducks. We observed that he was doing his utmost to generate progeny, but for month after month poor Fuzzhead remained the lone fuzzhead in the flock.

I did some research and learned that there's a term for the kind of duck old Fuzzhead was -- a bufflehead. They're indigenous to England. It seems one found its way all the way from the other side of the planet and settled at McKinley Park. That he had human help in making that journey we've little doubt.

So, we think we have a pretty good idea of how Fuzzhead came to live at McKinley Park. As baby ducks were born at the pond and swam about without apparent extra fuzz or buffles or whatever, we kind of gave up thinking we'd see Fuzzhead offspring and returned to our usual haunt, the American River Parkway. But we were wrong. On a return trip some time later we saw two large white ducks with buffles. Fuzzhead was nowhere to be found, but his kids were swimming across the pond.

Still later, we saw more ducks of various colors displaying buffles. The grandkids. Even later, a lone mallard displays just a touch of Fuzzhead's influence.

It's not just the buffles at that pond. There are numerous ducks and geese of no discernible breed -- duck mutts, if you will -- swimming all over the pond. An attentive study for a year might yield interesting data about duck and goose characteristics that pass from one generation to another.

The attentive observer will note, however, that the wood ducks remain unscathed by the evolutionary chaos emerging all around them. The wood ducks remain quietly, reassuringly wood ducks.

Taking Back Our Lives

2007-11-30T11:05:00.000-08:00

One year ago today I composed a very important blog entry and vowed I would post it. Today it remains saved as a draft. To post it would have been courageous, but I lacked the courage required. It was too soon. I wasn't ready. Perhaps this year I am ready to discuss publicly the single most traumatic event of my life -- an event that didn't even actually happen to me.

I wish it had happened to me instead of to my daughter. That's how parents are. We'd sooner throw ourselves in front of a runaway train than see our children harmed. But harmed she was, my amazing, beautiful, courageous daughter.

By this time last year she was already being open about her experience. It wasn't her shame, after all. She hadn't done anything wrong. She was just walking along a street and some creep who'd decided to rape somebody spotted her when no one else was around. He took her into a dark stairwell and he raped her.

At the time, overwrought as I was, I kept reminding myself of all the ways it could have been worse. She could have gone missing without a trace. She could have been injured beyond the rape itself. We could have travelled to Oakland to claim a body. Yes, it could have been far, far worse. But it was bad enough.

It had a very peculiar effect on me. Something deep inside me was stirred up and some very ugly history was reopened so that I found myself back in therapy, back in recovery, back in the pit of despair -- and of precious little use to my daughter.

Fortunately, she was surrounded by amazing friends and community resources. Family members in Oakland were there for her in wonderful ways. The rapist has not been caught. He's still out there victimizing women. But my daughter is fully alive. "The best revenge is to live well."

Part of the promise I made to myself one year ago was that I'd be as open as my daughter about my own history. That's a pretty damned scary promise to make, let alone keep, but I'm going to type it and maybe this year I'll have the cajones to hit "publish" instead of "save as draft".

Don't worry; I'll keep it short. Basically, I have no memory of being a child who had never been sexually abused. When your preverbal introduction to life includes guys getting their rocks off with your assistance, it colors your life view. You're not surprised to be treated as an object, and you're not surprised when they say it's your own fault. So when you get to be twelve and your uncle who's half again your height and at least twice your weight decides it's his turn and it's your fault and you're not to tell a soul, you tend to play along. This is how life has been from your earliest recollections. This is your life.

That was my life. And not a single person stepped in to stop it. I might as well have been in a dark stairwell where no one would have heard my screams even if the guy hadn't been armed and threatening my life if I didn't cooperate.

Kids are kids, and kids aren't supposed to have to take care of themselves. But some do. And women should be able to walk alone at night. But we can't. It sucks, but it's real, and real is something with which we can deal. My daughter is dealing and healing well, and so am I. We're suddenly strangely equals in this muck and we're able to say good and supportive things to each other. We've each made amazing new friends and amazing new discoveries about ourselves as a direct result of those long moments of her hell on earth.

Two years ago today a lowlife scoundrel committed a purely evil act, but out of that evil much good has come. So there, you jerk! I hope you have to face yourself someday. Meanwhile, I want you off the street for good. Too bad for you, I don't believe in the death penalty. That'd be too good for you. No, I want you in prison for life, preferably with a profound sense of remorse, preferably with an amazing experience of redemption, but definitely in prison. For life. No parole.

As for my perps, most of them are long dead, though never brought to justice. One of them I have no idea what became of him, but I do believe in Karma. I trust Karma's taking really good care of him. Bwa-ha-ha!

Ladies, I don't hold out a lot of hope for taking back the night, but I know we can take back our lives! Live well, my sisters! Live well, my daughter!

New Life Goal

2007-11-12T17:24:00.000-08:00

Some time back I was pretty sure I wanted to become a cantankerous old biddy. By the end of that bit of musing I was beginning to rethink the idea. Today, I have officially rethought and rejected the idea.

Today I met a cantankerous old biddy. She was embarrassing herself. Rolling around the grocery store in an electric wheelchair cart, she was giving the employees hell for not providing a list of products in the store telling where in the store those items might be found.

Her tirade was inspired by me, I'm afraid. She'd just wheeled into my vicinity when she asked loudly enough for all to hear, where she would find the spices. I looked at my list and told her they were on aisle 5.

"Where did you get that list?!" she demanded.

"I made it." said I.

She then whooshed off and started telling the employees their organization wasn't as intelligent as the customer who had developed her own shopping list. She pointed me out to them. I held my list over my face and grabbed cocoa off the shelf and hastily made my way away from her ongoing rant.

So, cantankerous old biddy is out as a life goal. My new goal? Sweet old lady -- until someone gets out of line, at which time I intend to be as gracious as possible in setting them damn well straight, and no doubt about it.

Uh-Oh

2007-11-08T13:45:00.000-08:00

Think before you eat, folks.

From Democracy Now:

FBI Monitored Sales At Middle Eastern Grocery Stores
Congressional Quarterly is reporting that the FBI sifted through customer data collected by San Francisco-area grocery stores in 2005 and 2006, hoping that sales records of Middle Eastern food would lead to Iranian secret agents. The idea was that a spike in, say, falafel sales, combined with other data, would lead to Iranian agents in the region. The program was the brainchild of top FBI counterterrorism officials Phil Mudd and Willie Hulon. The datamining operation was eventually stopped after FBI officials determined it was possibly illegal to place someone on a terrorist list because of what they ate.

POSSIBLY illegal??????

Pet Blogging Peeve

2007-11-08T11:54:00.000-08:00

I know the whole idea of electronic communication is to cut down on the use of paper, and I'm totally in favor of that. But sometimes one wants or needs to print a blog. At Blogger there's no built-in "printer friendly" option that I can find. There is at least one way to add the printer friendly option into one's blog, created by an outside source, but as described, it seems cumbersome and I don't have time to mess around with that.

If anyone knows of a quick and easy way to add printer friendliness to my blog, please let me know. Thanks.

The New No-No

2007-11-05T18:35:00.000-08:00

Much is made in the media lately about the evils of bottled water. Arguments against are many and varied: the high cost, the likelihood of the quality being no better than the local tap water, the ridiculous versions of designer and specialty waters, the environmental impact of producing all those bottles and especially of irresponsible disposal of them. All but one of these arguments are completely valid in most localities. The recommendation is for folks to use refillable containers to transport tap water as they move about through the day. I agree that this is a preferable approach for most people.

I take great exception, however, to an idea being seriously considered in some localities: that of making bottled water illegal there.

For one thing, there are some places where the tap water, though technically safe to drink, is nevertheless unpalatable. More importantly, there are ever more places where the community's water supply is medicated with fluoride and some of us can't consume fluoride. If a community makes their water undrinkable for some, they have a responsibility to make available water that is safe for those for whom fluoride is dangerous.

(Such is the folly of medicating an entire community through their tap water, but that's a topic for another day.)

Without Job

2007-11-04T22:20:00.000-08:00

Unemployed, between jobs, disengaged, fired, jobless, laid off, sacked, canned, let go, pink slipped, handed one's hat, shown the door, dismissed, out of work.....

Whatever you call it, no matter the reason, no matter the letter of recommendation that leaves with you, it still boils down to no longer being needed.

That's hard not to take personally.

Stuff to Read

2007-11-01T21:49:00.000-07:00

Here are some things that everybody ought to read.

You can start with my brother's blog. He's very prolific with the blogging lately, and he always has worthwhile things to say.

Tonight I watched the film version of Divine Secrets of the Ya-Ya Sisterhood. Good movie, nice story, but not the story told in the book. I recommend the book. Of course, it's a chick book, so the guys might not get much out of it, but if I'm wrong about that, let me know.

Probably far more important is to read this editorial about the latest antics of one Fred Phelps, who personifies zealous extremism and somehow manages to keep a following of people who agree with him. It's only a few dozen people who follow him, but follow they do. Literally. All over the country, they spew gut-wrenching vulgarities in the name of God and Christ. Phelps takes homophobia to a stunning level that defies both faith and reason. Well, Phelps, all I've got to say is a signature quote by Flip Wilson's ironically cross-dressed character, Geraldine: "God will get you for that, Honey!"

Lame But Harmless

2007-10-24T22:08:00.000-07:00

What Disney character is your alter ego? Find out at http://quizfarm.com/test.php?q_id=1107N.

Here's mine:

Your alter ego is The Beast! But that is only a name... you are kind hearted and sweet, people just misunderstand you.

The Beast: 88%
Goofy: 75%
Sleeping Beauty: 75%
Ariel: 69%
Peter Pan: 63%
Cinderella: 56%
Pinocchio: 50%
Donald Duck: 19%
Snow White: 13%
Cruella De Ville: 0%

Well, at least I apparently have nothing in common with Cruella De Ville!

On the Mountain Top?

2007-10-19T12:16:00.000-07:00

We spent a few days in the mountains this week. It was supposed to be a whole week, but things happened. First it was abbreviated from one end by the opportunity to get my flu shot on Saturday, so we delayed departure until Sunday. Then I realized I had failed to pick up my prescription refills before the pharmacy closed on Saturday, so we had to wait until Monday morning.

The trip was abbreviated from the other end by Hubby developing a dental emergency that forced us to leave on Thursday. So, we spent mid Monday through mid Thursday in the mountains where it rained and sleeted and snowed and blew great gusts of wind, but where the sun also shone.

The real story is in the color of the trees, the drama of the sky, and in the critters.

The trees were in full radiant glory -- mostly orange and yellow, but with some red mixed in along with just enough green to make the palette extra lovely.

Our first day on the beach (thoroughly bundled and booted against the cold) we watched the weather move in and overtake the mountains. It being off-season, the forest service hadn't demolished someone's wigwam-type structure.

We got to see a large hawk with a lifeless squirrel in its clutches. It flew out of a tree quite near us and we were struck by the size of the thing as well as its beautiful plumage, its wings loudly pushing against the air.

We also met a duck. It was a young mallard who quacked at us with a broken quack that made him sound quite hoarse. It became quickly apparent that he was hoarse for a reason. Having been raised on the leavings and the handouts of beach goers, he hadn't a clue how to fend for himself. He was begging. With us, the begging of wild creatures is to no avail. We know that to feed them is to doom them, and so the duck quacked on.

Driving back to the cabin, a misty rain fell on the windshield, mixed with just a few snowflakes. By the time we reached the cabin, we were driving through a snow flurry, and the little kid part of me was delightedly giggling about it. (Being Sacramentans who avoid going places where there is likely to be snow, we don't see much of this stuff. Maybe it's time to rethink the whole avoiding the snow thing.) The flurry soon let up and none of the snow remained intact on the ground.

That night the wind came up and blew sleet against the cabin's metal roof, sounding like grains of sand, yet a far gentler sound than I would have expected. It was my first experience of sleet. (Yes, really.) By sun-up there was about a half inch of snow on the ground. Again, the little kid part of me got pretty worked up, snapping pictures of the stuff before crawling back into bed.

Later we again bundled and booted up to return to the beach. The road was icy, and as we made our way we came upon a large robin who seemed quite frozen in place. We doubted very much that it was truly frozen to the road, but it definitely gave that impression as it held its ground, poking at a sumptuous bit of carrion. We actually ended up backing up and going around. Robins with attitude; what next?

The duck. That's what was next. Dubbed "Quackers" by me, the pathetic creature walked right up to us with no fear at all. He followed us as we strolled the beach and along the pond where all the other ducks and waterfowl were not only feeding properly, but keeping a wary distance from us. Not Quackers. He was our shadow. Hubby coaxed Quackers into the pond and splashed the end of a stick in the water to try to get him to swim toward the other ducks. Quackers remained unimpressed, and so we left him to follow the next human, remembering the old children's book, Are You My Mother?

A bitterly cold wind was blowing, but the snow had stopped and the clouds had parted enough to reveal the result of their work the day before.

As we headed toward the path to the car we observed a battle-scarred little tree squirrel successfully chase off a large fluffy ground squirrel. Perhaps attitude is what makes the difference between surviving the winter and becoming someone's lunch.

Having noticed large crowds gathered on the bridge over Taylor Creek earlier in the week, we decided to stop and see what was up. We suspected the Kokanee salmon were putting on their annual show, and we were right.

That was pretty much the end of our holiday. We had to rise by eight the next morning to winterize the cabin and return to the valley in time for Hubby's dental appointment. In the wee hours of the night, though, I heard a strange cry or howl of some kind. Thinking Hubby must have hollered in his sleep, I unfortunately woke him by asking if he was OK. As we both lay there trying to fall back to sleep, the window to the loft suddenly lit up, meaning something had caused the motion-sensing floodlight outside to turn on. I jumped to the window and saw -- nothing.

What you need to know is that there has been a big problem with bears -- especially one bear whom I've dubbed "Yogi" -- breaking into cabins. Indeed, ours is one of the few cabins in our section of the tract that wasn't broken into this summer. Yogi had moved on to another tract over the ridge some six weeks before, so it wasn't unlikely that he would return right about this time. Being the only occupied cabin in our section made ours the only one that currently smelled like a "pickanick basket". That's what I lay there thinking as I tried to go back to sleep, reminding myself that the air horn was on the shelf nearby.

We were two sleepy puppies who dragged ourselves from the bed at 8 a.m. The cabin was frigid, but we had to let the oil-filled electric heater cool down so we could cover it for the winter. We did build a fire in the stove so we wouldn't completely freeze, but we were not rested, not toasty and not happy when a truck and trailer pulled up in front and offloaded a stump grinder. The stump grinder was maneuvered up the neighbor's driveway and a second truck followed. After several days of tranquil stillness it somehow suddenly got a whole lot easier to leave.

While we got busy doing all the things one must do before leaving a place unoccupied for the winter, we turned on the local NPR station to try to diminish the whine of the stump grinder. As it happens, the host of Fresh Air was interviewing author Junot Diaz about his bestseller The Brief Wondrous Life of Oscar Wao. By the time the interview concluded, we both wanted to read the book.

So it seems that blessings often arrive in odd packages; sometimes the best part of a vacation is the part you didn't plan; and when it comes to timing, God, the universe or whatever has definitely got it all figured out.

Added later:

OK, so there's more to the story. On Thursday we got Hubby to the dentist on time, the dentist did his thing, and we made plans for going to Apple Hill on Friday. Less than two hours after leaving the dentist, Hubby's tooth fell apart again. So, instead of going to Apple Hill, Hubby returned to the dentist on Friday for more fun and we made plans to go to Apple Hill on Saturday.

On Saturday, we rose early (for a Saturday) and were on our way shortly after nine. We went to our favorite Apple Hill location (Rainbow Orchards) where we bought a box of apples, a jug of cider and two fresh apple cider doughnuts. Oh yum! There were scarecrows on display, and here's a picture of our favorite. (It's a nerd, if you can't tell.) (OK. Here's a close-up.)

After a gorgeous drive amid the fall leaves, we returned to the main road into Apple Hill and discovered that about half the population of Sacramento seemed to be arriving, albeit verrrry slowly, and we congratulated ourselves on arriving and departing early.

At home, we started to do laundry, only to discover that our aging washing machine was making loud grinding noises. We weighed whether the thing was worth fixing, knowing it would cost at least $100 to get a professional opinion, and decided the machine had enjoyed a good run and it was time to replace it.

But what you have to understand about that is that when our oven died about a year ago we felt we couldn't afford to replace it. We've been making due with the microwave, toaster oven and an electric roaster. Turns out, we don't really miss the oven, plus it's doing wonderful things for our power bill, not having an oven. Yet when the washing machine showed signs of imminent demise we didn't hesitate. "To Sears!"

So, we're just back from Apple Hill and not dressed in our finest, and we walk into the appliance department and a morose looking salesman approaches us and asks if he can help us find something. Yes, we say. We have to replace our washing machine. With a Kenmore.

Expecting to be shown the ultra super dooper latest greatest Kenmore washer first and then have to whittle him back by notches, we follow him to model 100. It fills with water, sloshes clothes around, drains, rinses, and spins. It's very inexpensive, but it has none of the features to which we have grown accustomed on our old machine. We move to the 200, the 300, and so on. Finally we're looking at model 600 and are just about sure that's the one to buy when Hubby notices it doesn't have a presoak and prewash cycle. Around the corner we go to the ultra super dooper latest greatest (top loading) Kenmore. Here we see all the features we've grown to love and I ask whether it's the top of the line. He says there's a model 800, but not in the showroom. What's it got that this one hasn't got, I ask. You can fit one more towel in it, he says. So we purchase model 700 from the somewhat less morose salesman and walk away marvelling at the ease with which the task was accomplished. Not having to beat off overzealous salespeople pleases us.

Right outside of Sears is a Cinnabon. It's smells divine. We read each other's minds and go to Cinnabon, where we order one bun and two forks. The exuberant youngster behind the counter tells us about the great deal we'll get if we buy two. It'll cost less per bun. Really. No, we say, we want one bun, two forks. We're sure. Really.

It tasted wonderful.

Bumper Sticker

2007-10-12T22:00:00.000-07:00

Sighted on Fair Oaks Blvd in Sacramento on Wednesday, October 10:

"Wag more. Bark less."

Support

2007-10-08T10:43:00.000-07:00

"Support our troops!" The car magnets and bumper stickers are all over the place. Some go so far as to say, "Support our troops -- end the war!" or "Support our troops -- bring them home!" There are a lot of people, including many of those troops, who view efforts to end the war as being unsupportive of the troops, of their purpose -- unsupportive of the War on Terror.

That's interesting to me, considering much of the world views the United States as the most terrifying power on Earth. [Turn off CNN and Fox and read the international press online.]

Perhaps a lesser known aspect of the War on Terror is being waged right here at home. Right here in Sacramento, in fact. The FBI is (still) infiltrating activist organizations to keep an eye on their activities and supposedly prevent them from doing things like blowing up Federal buildings. This is nothing new. I was foolish enough to hope, however, that they'd toned it down a notch since the 60s and 70s.

A really rather interesting case in Sacramento's Federal Court wrapped up recently with the conviction of Eric McDavid on charges of conspiring to destroy government property. The government is trying apply a domestic terrorism enhancement to the conviction before sentencing in December. I encourage readers to Google "Eric McDavid" and see what the mainstream press is saying about the case as well as what McDavid's supporters are saying.

One might suppose that the actual truth of the case lies somewhere in between what these sources say, but even just reading the mainstream media reports I began to smell a rat. And that's not just because this case interests me on a personal level.

The fact that it's personal is what got me reading. A person can only take so much "news" without getting twitchy, and for those of us who are a little twitchy by nature, "news" is rarely helpful to our condition. But when the "news" concerns people you have known and loved, twitchy or not, one reads it. Painful as it is, one reads it.

The McDavids and I were neighbors when my daughter was born. Eric's mom and I became close friends. When my first marriage disintegrated, I had to find a new church and I accepted my friend's invitation to visit hers. Instantly hooked, I stayed, and that is where I met my current husband. Eric's mom was my maid of honor at our wedding.

Eric was probably about 8 or 9 when I first knew the McDavids, so I got to watch him grow into a teenager before time and life's strange twists sent our two families in different directions. Both families left that church and we were out of touch for many years. Suddenly Eric's name was in the headlines, and the McDavids' place in my heart was stirred to pain and prayer as I tried to imagine what they were going through.

The Eric described in the paper was not the Eric I had known. I had known him as a gentle soul. I couldn't reconcile that with what was being said about him. Conspiring to blow things up? Stating that the loss of human life was an acceptable price for his anarchist goals? Isolating himself from his family? That didn't sound like the Eric I knew.

I am not an anarchist. I believe in the rule of law. But I also believe that justice should be blind and the law should be upheld with fairness and equality. So, whether Eric is innocent or guilty of the charges, I believe he should be treated fairly, and from what I've read, I am firmly of the opinion that Eric did not receive a fair trial. I'm glad he's appealing the verdict, and I intend to help raise funds to pay for his defense -- not for defense of his anarchist views, but for his right to a fair and speedy trial and his right to be properly treated while incarcerated.

That last is a very pressing point. Eric is a vegan. Not because it's stylish, but because he feels deep conviction about consuming animal products and byproducts. Denied bail, he has been in jail while his trial was delayed and delayed and delayed.... Meanwhile, for all but fifteen months of that time he has been denied access to nutritious vegan foods. He eats the fruits and breads from his meal trays and when he has access to the commissary he buys what little is available there that he can eat, but he does not get a balanced diet that way. Nor has he received appropriate medical care in jail. For fifteen of the some 24 months he's been in jail, they provided him consistently adequate nourishment, so they clearly can provide it. One wonders at the influences that determine whether they do provide it at any given time.

I've often marvelled that we as a culture treat imprisoned humans worse than we treat free animals, yet we expect them to emerge from prison somehow magically reformed. We expect civilized behavior from people we fail to treat with civility. We expect ex-cons to feel repentant and contrite and ready to conform to a society that has denied them even the most basic considerations. We wonder why our system fails so miserably, consistently and thoroughly.

When someone you know and care about is behind bars, you start to pay attention to these things. It ceases to be an abstract concept. When someone you remember as a youngster tossing a ball around the lawn with his siblings becomes a person fingered by the FBI, incarcerated by the system, and railroaded into a conviction, you take it personally.

I like denial. It's a happy place where I feel comfy and unchallenged. In denial, law enforcement officers are always honest, trials are always fair, and only criminals go to jail. In denial, there is always a happy ending.

The cute red-headed young church acolyte I remember has grown up to be an anarchist. That's hard to fathom, but there it is. This is still a relatively free country where we're still technically allowed to express unpopular viewpoints. That's a good thing. I'm glad the president of Iran can come here and say the horrible things he says about Israel. I'm glad the skinheads and neo-nazis are free to say the appalling things they say about different ethnicities. The reason I'm glad about that is that as long as they're free to say what they think, then I'm free to say what I think. That is the greatest strength of this country.

There is a line, however. It is one thing to say an entire nation should be wiped off the Earth and something else entirely to take steps to make it happen. It is one thing to say different ethnicities should live separately and quite another to try to impose that way of life on everyone. It is one thing to say there should be no laws and another to simply disregard the laws under which we all live. It is one thing to defend the planet from human destruction, but completely different to harm inhabitants of the planet in order to accomplish that -- ironic and inconsistent too, for that matter.

It's illegal to plot violent schemes against property and/or people. "Direct action" is what it is called by protesters who feel unheard and desperate. If Eric believes such direct action is appropriate, then he and I disagree on that. But even if he's guilty (and I don't know that he is) that doesn't mean he doesn't deserve the same fair trial that you would expect -- nay, demand -- if you stood accused. It doesn't mean he doesn't deserve an adequate diet and medical care.

And what if he's innocent? If he's innocent, then something really bad just got a whole lot worse, didn't it. The rule of law in this country says that we are presumed innocent until proven guilty, yet this presumably innocent man has been subjected to imprisonment, starvation, and denial of medical care. If that's how we treat those who are presumed by law to be innocent, I shudder to imagine what I'm about to learn about how we treat those who are found to be guilty.

Yes, I support Eric. I support his right to be treated fairly, at the very least. I support his right to be treated as the human being I know him to be.

We adults, when we meet a child, at whatever age we meet that child, we retain the memory of that meeting for the rest of our lives. Just as my daughter is to me forever to some degree the tiny infant I cradled at birth, Eric is to me forever the shy, awkward, gentle little boy I met twenty years ago.

Every occupant of every cell is remembered by someone as being small, young, vulnerable, impressionable -- human. Big or small. Strong or weak. Innocent or guilty. Human.

Human.

Created by Creator to be part of Creation.

No exceptions.

Phedocia vs. Tree

2007-10-05T15:40:00.000-07:00

Bifocals are great. Really. They're extremely helpful and I don't know how I'd cope without them. They do have a downside, however, in that they render everything in front of one at ground level quite blurry. After several very nasty falls caused by this drawback, I have learned to pay careful attention to where my feet are going. On stairs and on uneven ground this is especially important.

So, on Sunday afternoon I was picking my way along uneven ground, using a well-worn path through ivy, when my head connected quite abruptly with a very solid object. It's truly amazing how many thoughts can move through one's consciousness between the time one bumps one's head and the time one lies on the ground staring up at the tree limb upon which one bumped. I distinctly remember thinking about the fact that I had, indeed, bumped my head, that I was falling backward, that there was nothing I could do to stop my fall, and wondering whether I might be about to land on something really quite unpleasant, such as a large rock or a curb, and whether this was the proverbial "it".

I was therefore extremely relieved to feel myself plop into a great heap of ivy -- a delightfully cushioned landing. The relief was short-lived, however, as I grew conscious of intense pain on the top of my head. Tears rushed to gush down my face despite my heroic stoic efforts. A friend said, "Are you all right?" I none-too-cheerfully replied, "Compared to what?!"

Well, Hubby was there. He helped me to my feet and we abandoned our destination to return home, put ice on my head, and watch episodes of "Two and a Half Men" we had taped during the week. I sobbed for a full hour. It was pretty impressive. You'd think my puppy had just died. Sob, sob, sob. At last I calmly watched the episodes of that very clever comedy while noticing an increase in body aches and nausea and a decrease in mental acuity. Then one episode featured a moment so hysterical to my jostled brain that I shrieked with laughter. I was out of control. Tears returned to my face and I pounded the arm of my comfy chair, rocking back and forth, as Hubby found me to be even funnier than the scene that set me off.

Later I wondered if I'd just had a taste of what bipolar patients endure. I suspect not. Not really. But it was definitely a wild ride.

Now it's Friday. Five days after the bump, I'm reasonably functional, though still a little nauseous and a bit dazed and confused. A little slurred speech here and there. Nothing too unusual.

So, our little family joke is that whenever something like this happens, one of us says, "Call Jacobi and Meyers". The truth is, I don't even know whether the accident injury law firm still exists, but that's what we say. Always there's the unvoiced question, "Is this the incident for which we can ethically sue and expect to receive enough compensation to retire and live comfortably ever after?"

Nope. I don't think I can blame somebody else because I ran my head into a tree limb. Not and live with myself in peace. Oh well.

Triple-A Champions!

2007-09-19T20:51:00.001-07:00

Our very own River Cats ran away with the whole kaboodle this year! They took their division, then their league, and then prevailed at the big one-day showdown on Tuesday. We've seen some spectacular games this year. It's been magical.

Will the magic last into next season? Who knows? That's part of the fun, is seeing what happens, for better or for worse. Being at the park, munching on lousy overpriced food, sipping a particularly overpriced cold one, and cheering for our team no matter how they do -- that's what it's all about. But this week...

We are the champions! Woo-hoo!

Cause for Hope

2007-09-19T20:36:00.000-07:00

On Saturday, there was the "great coastal cleanup" or whatever they call it, which extends to inland waterways. Volunteers converge on the beaches and riverbanks and stream beds to remove the stuff people spew into them. They remove literally tons of refuse, and that's good.

On Sunday, we went to our usual section of the river parkway to walk and also clean up whatever litter we encountered. The parkway was much cleaner than we usually find it, but we still gathered several pounds of garbage and recyclables.

I can get pretty discouraged sometimes about what people do to our planet and to one another. But on Monday I saw something that I've decided to hold onto as a sort of psychic talisman.

Driving down a local street that tends to be pretty littered, I observed a man taking time to teach his very young son to pick up litter -- to be a good steward of his little corner of the world. I was moved.

It's like the saying, "If everyone swept in front of their house, the whole world would be cleaner."

In addition to our weekly tending of the river parkway near us, Hubby and I circumnavigate our block from time to time to pick up the stuff the traffic and wind and untidy persons deposit at the roadside. After that, every time we drive by the section of our block that faces a major street we notice how much cleaner it is than the others. Some of the others tend to get cleaned up after we do ours.

We're wiggling our fingers in the human pool of consciousness, hoping the ripples of caring concern attract others who'll do the same. From time to time we see just enough cause for hope to carry on.

My New Shero

2007-09-04T21:23:00.000-07:00

Grace Lee Boggs. It's a name I'd never heard before Friday night, August 31, on Bill Moyers' Journal. The half hour broadcast of Moyers' interview was transforming for me. I invite to you read a full transcript of the program, which begins with a half hour interview with poet Robert Bly at http://www.pbs.org/moyers/journal/08312007/transcript3.html.

Meanwhile, I'm going to share bits of the Boggs interview with you here -- the parts that most moved and inspired me, and I hope they do the same for you. I hope you'll read the full transcript, though, because it was all so good and extremely difficult to trim!

I had no idea what I was gonna do after I got my degree in philosophy in 1940. But what I did know was at that time, if you were a Chinese-American, even department stores wouldn't hire you. They'd come right out and say, "We don't hire Orientals."

Just think about that. How often do progressives say we aren't getting anywhere? We haven't gone far enough. Well, it's true we've got a good ways to go, but it seems to me we need to look at a story like Boggs' and remind ourselves of how far we've come. What she describes happening in 1940 was both common and legally sanctioned at the time. Now it's against the law. That's huge! Let's not view this as an isolated triumph! Let's view it as part of the momentum that will propel us through the next hurdle and the next and so on!

...A rebellion is righteous, because it's the protest by a people against injustice, because of an unrighteous situation, but it's not enough. .... What does a revolution mean? How does it relate to evolution?

How indeed? Read on.

I don't expect moral arguments to take hold with the powers-that-be. They are in their positions of power. They are part of the system. They are part of the problem.
~@~

GRACE LEE BOGGS: I think we depend too much on the government to do it. I think we're not looking sufficiently at what is happening at the grassroots in the country. We have not emphasized sufficiently the cultural revolution that we have to make among ourselves in order to force the government to do differently. Things do not start with governments--
BILL MOYERS: But wars do.
GRACE LEE BOGGS: Wars do. But positive changes, leaps forward in the evolution of human kind, do not start with governments. I think that's what the Civil Rights Movement taught us.

~@~

GRACE LEE BOGGS: I believe that we are at the point now, in the United States, where a movement is beginning to emerge. I think that the calamity -- the quagmire -- of the Iraq war, the outsourcing of jobs, the drop-out of young people from the education system, the monstrous growth of the prison-industrial complex, the planetary emergency in which we are engulfed at the present moment, is demanding that instead of just complaining about these things, instead of just protesting about these things, we begin to look for, and hope for, another way of living. And I think that's where I see a movement beginning to emerge, 'cause I see hope beginning to trump despair.
BILL MOYERS: Where do you see the signs of it?
GRACE LEE BOGGS: I see the signs in the various small groups that are emerging all over the place to try and regain our humanity in very practical ways. For example in Milwaukee, Wisconsin, Will Allen, who is a former basketball player has purchased two and a half acres of land, with five
greenhouses on it, and he is beginning to grow food, healthy food for his community. And communities are growing up around that idea. I mean, that's a huge change in the way that we think of the city. I mean, the things we have to restore are so elemental. Not just food, and not just healthy food, but a different way of relating to time and history and to the earth.
BILL MOYERS: And a garden does that for you?
GRACE LEE BOGGS: Yes. A garden does all sorts of things. It helps young people to relate to the Earth in a different way. It helps them to relate to their elders in a different way. It helps them to think of time in a different way.
BILL MOYERS: How so?
GRACE LEE BOGGS: Well, if we just press a button, and you think that's the key to reality, you're in a hell of a mess as a human being!

~@~

BILL MOYERS: You know, a lot of young people out there would agree with your analysis. With your diagnosis. And then they will say: What can I do that's practical? How do I make the difference that Grace Lee Boggs is taking about? What would you be doing?
GRACE LEE BOGGS: I would say do something local. Do something real, however small. And don't diss the political things, but understand their limitations.
BILL MOYERS: Don't 'diss' them?
GRACE LEE BOGGS: Disrespect them.
BILL MOYERS: Disrespect them?
GRACE LEE BOGGS: Understand their limitations. There was a time when we believed that if we just achieved political power it would solve all our problems. And I think what we learned from experiences of the Russian Revolution, all those revolutions, that those who try to get power in the state become part of the state. They become locked into the practices. And we have to begin creating new practices.

~@~
BILL MOYERS: Do you see any leaders who are advocating that change? I mean, people that we would all recognize, anybody we'd all recognize?
GRACE LEE BOGGS: I don't see any leaders, and I think we have to rethink the concept of "leader." 'Cause "leader" implies "follower." I think we need to embrace the idea that we are the leaders we've been looking for.

I honestly can't think of a thing to add to that.

Ter-ry! Ter-ry! Ter-ry!

2007-08-25T22:42:00.000-07:00

The truth is, I don't watch most of the competitions on TV, but when I stumbled upon the early audition episodes of America's Got Talent, something about it hooked me. It wasn't the three judges, about whom I knew nothing. It certainly wasn't host Jerry Springer. It was the acts. They were bizarre, outrageous, offensive and occasionally wonderful.

The most wonderful act in the bunch won top prize this week -- Terry Fator. Terry is a multi-talented guy who's figured out how to take all his talents and wrap them into a charming, funny, awe-inspiring, and even family-friendly package. He's a ventriloquist, a vocalist, a humorist and an impressionist. Besides that, he's a class act. Genuinely humble and grateful and having a really fun time, he's impossible not to love.

Several of my favorite Terry Fator moments have been placed by NBC at YouTube, and I encourage -- nay, I implore -- you to visit YouTube and treat yourself to some of the most charming and funny entertainment you'll see in your life.

If there's just one thing I can ask of Terry Fator, it's that he bring his act to visit us in Sacramento. A few minutes here and there is not enough. I want to see a full evening performance of Terry Fator and his 15 puppets -- only about 5 of which I've seen so far!

Ter-ry! Ter-ry! Ter-ry!

Setting Goals

2007-08-07T16:13:00.000-07:00

Having arrived at middle age with a modicum of grace and my sense of humor largely intact, it seems a good time to examine my life goals. One of the life goals I'm considering is that of becoming a cantankerous old biddy. That may seem an odd goal to some, but the truth is I rather admire cantankerous old biddies.

I like the idea of not caring what people think of me. I like the idea of being able to refer to cheeky young people as "sonny" or "girlie" and getting away with it. I even like the idea of wielding a cane in a threatening manner from time to time, although I hope I never become so dreadful that I don't mind actually hurting people with it.

I like the idea of tactlessly pointing out the idiocy of people and policies that annoy me and especially the ones that cause harm to innocent and powerless people. There are times, I lately think, when tact is overrated. For one thing, tact takes time, and who's got time? Oh, I've got time now, sure, but when I'm 70-something? I'm not sure I'll have time for tact then. Except for social situations, that is. Tact is essential in social situations, unless someone is being a complete jerk, in which case a well-placed knee to the nether regions may be in order. But back to attending to the needs of the powerless. Tact may be seen as necessary here, but again, time is the trouble. Maybe I've got time to be tactful, but the decision makers seem to possess neither the time nor the patience to listen to my tact.

Cantankerous old biddies have a definite edge over middle aged nice women. They get heard. Whether anyone listens is another matter, but they do get heard and noticed. Have you ever been invisible? I have. When I am a cantankerous old biddy, if anyone acts as if I'm absent, I intend to call it to their attention. Cantankerously.

What with peri-menopausal hormonal imbalances in full swing, I'm considering making an early start on this life goal. Truth be told, I even like the idea of being so cantankerous that some might tell me to "Shut yer trap, Granny!" That would be far preferable to being invisible.

I'm told I'm too heavy to wear crepe fabrics, but I'm considering being cantankerous about that, too. I may not wait until my shape is right before I wear crepes and other fabrics and colors I like. Among my life goals is that of becoming optimally healthy. Whether that ultimately results in my being svelte is a matter of considerable genetically induced doubt.

I look at photos taken of my foremothers -- those who spent every waking minute of every day of their lives working on ranches, keeping large families and groups of workmen fed from sun-up to sun-down, somehow managing to do the laundry and the cleaning and occasionally squatting down to produce another family member. Are they svelte? Of course not! Are they even slender? NO! Their bodies look like mine!

I've worked very little in my life, unless you count the hours spent tapping away at keyboards with ever lighter touches. I've reared one child. I've never cooked for a bunch of ranch hands in my life, let alone from scratch, using ingredients produced in a kitchen garden. I have access to wholesome foods from all the food groups, in the right proportions. I have time to hike along the river every weekend. Presumably, the gravity doing its work on my protruding parts is the same as the gravity that did its work on theirs -- only on the ranch they didn't mess around with support garments. Oh, no! What you saw was what they were, and, except for my carefully protected complexion, I look like them!

I'm tellin' ya -- it isn't about what you eat, whether you go to the gym, or what support garments you wear or don't wear. It's about your great-great grandma. What she looked like, you look like if she's the one you take after. Even the great grandma who allowed herself to be laced into those horrible corsets long enough to have her portrait taken, when all was said and done, the informal snapshots taken in later years tell the real story. She had maids to do the work, and she still ended up as round and saggy as the rancher's wife, the miner's wife, the retailer's wife -- and me.

Round and saggy does not command respect these days, let me tell you. It makes you invisible to much of society, at least when you're 50-ish. But add a cane and a cantankerous attitude, and people take notice! It's one of the reasons I don't color my hair. Besides really loving the look of naturally white hair, I think it's eye-catching and dignified.

Uh-oh. Can one be dignified and cantankerous at the same time?

I may have to rethink this particular life goal.

It never rains but that it pours

2007-07-31T11:51:00.001-07:00

I have no idea who said that first, but he or she was dead-on correct. It's not an expression I hear much anymore, but I find myself saying it a lot lately.

If there's a drama overdose recovery program out there, I need to sign up.

The thing about life dramas that arrive in hoards is that too often they're ongoing. I don't need to watch soap operas. I've got emails and phone calls from elder care managers. I've got a young adult daughter. I've got friends dealing with cancer, with mental illness, with troubled children. I've got a church that's such a mess I've all but severed myself from it. I've also got my own health concerns.

Don't you just hate those "don't worry; be happy" people? They clearly have no actual lives of their own. Otherwise they wouldn't have time to tell me how to live mine.

Look, I've still got my sense of humor, and if that's the best I can do at the moment, that's the best I can do.

Actually, the best I can do is to have faith, and I do have faith. I may not have a church anymore, but I definitely have faith. Faith and religion and such isn't about not having dramas. Jesus himself said, "In this life you will have dramas." Well, something like that. Faith isn't about God making it all better. Faith is about God being there while you deal.

People ask, "Why is God doing this?" or "Why would God let this happen?" It seems to me that God doesn't do things to us or let things happen to us. Life is what it is. Things happen. As Daughter says, "Some days you're the pigeon and some days you're the statue." God isn't waving an almighty wand and saying, "I'll smite this one today." or "Let's allow some crazies to fly jetliners into buildings and see what the kids make of that."

When bad things happen, God weeps -- with us, within us, and all around us. Although even Jesus himself cried out on the cross, "My God, why have you forsaken me?", the fact is God didn't forsake him and God doesn't forsake us. We are never alone. When we feel alone it's either because we're not paying attention or because things are so bad at the moment that all we feel is the pain.

But pain and hardship and drama do subside -- if not in this life, then immediately following it. And then what's left? God. Always. No matter what.

People say, "God is love." I can't disagree, but I think it's even truer to say, "Love is God." So, through all the dramas and traumas and heart-wrenching choices we sometimes have to make on behalf of others, as long as we know love, we know God.

However, wherever and whatever you experience as God -- whatever name you give to the one I call God -- may you be blessed with knowledge of love.

After Paradise Burns

2007-07-29T21:04:00.000-07:00

The Angora wildfire has left its mark on South Lake Tahoe. The burn area isn't easily recognized from most of the area -- yet. After a winter or two, the scar will be obvious indeed. Where the fire jumped the highway, air-dropped retardant coats trees, ground and road. Signs hang on numerous businesses, thanking the firefighters and other first responders, some calling them heroes.

Heroes indeed! Our tract welcomed two members of the local fire district to our meeting with a standing ovation. They had mixed emotions about that. As one said, "It's hard to feel like a hero when 254 people lost their homes."

Our hearts ache for those who lost so much, but it needs to be seen in perspective. This was a wind-driven wildfire, moving faster than any human can run. There are only three fire trucks in the area, and it took a long time for reinforcements to arrive. Even so, not one human died, and the few injuries were minor. Businesses (and livelihoods) and schools were saved. Completely irreplaceable historic sites were spared.

Regardless of the outcome, anyone who's willing to put him or herself between a wildfire and me is a hero.

I love that first responders are able to share their very human and real pain over the loss of 254 homes, but the signs and the ovations are well-earned. Thousands of homes were saved, as were hundreds of businesses. Especially considering the conditions, the limited acreage of the fire area (3100) seems miraculous.

The two fire officials shared with us some of what was learned from the fire -- about creating defensible space around homes and about ways to suppress wildfires in forested areas where people live. They gave us good, practical information, and we'll use it.

As they left, though, I could sense their heaviness of heart. These folks are grieving. So, keep those signs up and bake them some cookies. Most important, buy them more trucks and equipment and fund the fire suppression efforts so essential in populated areas of forest land.

One afterthought: Bring our National Guard units home from the Middle East so they can do what they signed up to do, which is to take care of things at home. Putting them to work, along with low risk inmates and able volunteers, the work can be done.

And another thing: There's a mess of red tape involved in trying to get permission to clean up fire hazards in forested areas surrounding populated areas. So, let's make the process faster and easier and, barring that, resort to common sense. If a small band of volunteers do some minor but potentially life-saving clean-up in the forest, who's gonna know? And even if by some fluke the officials actually do notice, it's generally easier to get forgiveness than permission. Where lives and property are at stake, We the People have rights and responsibilities. Let's not wuss out about this.

Confessions of a Tree Hugger

2007-07-20T23:17:00.000-07:00

It's true. I'm a bona fide tree hugger -- at least in the literal sense. When I visit the Redwoods and see those massive, ancient trees, I go to the largest one I can find and lean against it, with my arms reaching around. I want to give it my love and respect and awe. I also, on the off chance trees can know anything, want to absorb some of its knowledge and even wisdom.

Truth be told, I'm tempted to do that to other large, wonderful trees too, but the ones I'm around most tend to be sappy, so I settle for respectful regard, or perhaps a carefully placed hand upon the bark, plus a sniff of the pines that smell like vanilla or chocolate or both.

I'm sort of a nature nut, I guess. I adore relatively unspoiled places where the animals are still in charge, where waters are undammed, where paths are unpaved, where vistas are free of power lines, and where one can enjoy hours without hearing another human voice. I'm certainly an environmentalist, assuming that means I'm someone who believes in treating our planet gently and respectfully.

That's why my feathers were ruffled recently to hear someone -- a retired forest service employee, no less -- refer to environmentalists in derogatory terms. Environmentalists, he claims, are responsible for the mess the forests are in. Specifically, he referred to efforts by environmentalists to halt all logging in the national forests.

Tree hugger that I am, I'm an environmental realist. I get that logging in and of itself is not evil. Clear cutting is. Indiscriminate cutting is. And what they did to our small piece of paradise is.

I guess it's been about 20 years now, but the Forest Service decided the woods in the National Forest were overcrowded with trees -- that fire suppression to protect lives and property had resulted in a dangerous number of trees living in close proximity to each other. So, we were told loggers would be coming through during one winter to remove the problem trees.

Having observed over the years that smog and pests and drought were taking a dire toll on the forest, I foolishly assumed that the loggers would remove dead and dying trees. Returning to the forest that Spring, I couldn't find my voice at first. The dead and dying trees remained. Gone were the largest and oldest -- the venerable old growth trees of antiquity specifically spared by "Lucky" Baldwin a century and a half to two centuries ago when most of the Tahoe basin was clear cut by logging interests. My favorite trees from childhood and beyond had been harvested to build subdivisions that devour the open spaces of the valleys and foothills.

We'd been had.

So the truth is, I get a little worried when discussion turns to "wildfire suppression" and "forest management". I know we have to suppress wildfires near people and I know that because people live in forests, a certain amount of management is necessary. I often wonder, though, whether it's really the forest that needs managing or the people in it. As an environmental realist, I think it's a little of both. Well, maybe a lot of both.

Undergrowth, not density of trees, is now understood to be the major fuel of wildfires. Undergrowth is the stuff that grows under and around trees -- shrubs and clusters of baby trees -- as well as forest litter (the stuff that falls out of trees) are major contributors to the fast-burning fires we've witnessed in wilderness areas. Such burns are actually good for the forests, as noted in another post. What they're bad for is people and the stuff with which we surround ourselves. So, there's a push on to clear out the debris from forest lands that border on populated areas. Large numbers of dead trees, it turns out, are also excellent fuel sources.

As the number of people and especially their cars cram into the Tahoe basin, the toll is seen in air quality, which in turn is seen in the large swaths of dead trees on them thar mountain slopes. There's also a bad beetle attacking trees, so to be fair, it's not just people who are stressing the forests. But people have the power. We have the power to destroy and we have the power restore. We have the power to learn from experience. Let's learn and let's do better by the forests we claim to love.

Bumper Sticker

2007-07-07T18:53:00.000-07:00

Spotted on Highway 89 twixt Camp Rich & So Lake Tahoe:

"Cheney/Voldemort '08"

Paradise Ablaze

2007-06-27T12:36:00.000-07:00

When I was a tiny child, my parents spent what now seems like a pittance to purchase a small cabin on Forest Service land near South Lake Tahoe. My brother and I grew up with that bit of paradise reserved just for our family, and we certainly took it for granted.

There, we learned the value of quiet, the joy of standing stock still while a deer or other forest creature passed close by. We learned to respect the temperament of the lake, which could change in a hour from a mirror-like surface to 3-foot waves or worse. We learned to read the signs and to be off the water in time. We spent countless unsupervised hours in forest and meadow, with and without snow.

One Easter, the Easter bunny left eggs for us on the roof of our A-frame cabin. Another winter, the snow was just right for Dad to build an igloo for us in the back yard. One Memorial Day there was a freak snowstorm overnight that had neighbors banding together to dig cars out of the foot or two of snow that no one expected.

In my teen years, as hormones drove me from one mood swing to another, I found refuge in a spot that afforded both a view of Lake Tahoe and the cross-shaped glacier on Mt. Tallac. The terrible drought of 1976-77 melted the glacier away, so now the cross is only visible during the Spring run-off. That was an early lesson in the nature of life, which is change. At the time, I resented it.

Time passed, and my world view broadened. The Indian grinding rock upon which we kids climbed and played became a solemn reminder of who had been displaced before it was possible for us to lease a piece of paradise. If I sat there very still I swore I could hear the sounds of women talking and singing, and of young children playing nearby. There are still moments when I feel the brush of a passing soul, and a momentary mourning overtakes me long enough to remind me of the price of this blessing, and the eternal connection their souls and mine have formed with this place. This sacred place.

Some would say I'm crazy. Some would say I'm a poet. I don't care what people say.

In any event, there is absolute clarity in my mind and heart that apart from whatever contract I now have with the U.S. Forest Service, my presence there is a privilege, not a right. It is a blessing, not an entitlement. I do not possess the land, though to a degree it possesses me. I own the structure that sits upon that land, but even that is transient. My parents bought it, I now own it, and it is my intention to give it to my daughter some day.

But, just as grasses and wildflowers grow, seed and die, all things pass in time. Our tiny claim to paradise sits amid a poorly "managed" forest that is now in flames. Currently several miles from "our" place, the forest is experiencing what forests are supposed to experience from time to time. Started by human activity, the flames devour tree after tree. Lines are built, and rushing winds defy them, tossing embers like a handful of pebbles into a stream and the measure of acreage burned increases.

Yes, forests are supposed to burn. Indeed, I believe it is the glorious Jefferey pines that cannot reseed themselves without a fire to crack open the hulls. Fire cleanses and renews. Fire is a good thing in a forest. But this forest is "our" forest. It's a forest we know and love. It is a populated forest, one where people have built their homes and businesses. Our hearts beat in this forest, and our hearts mourn as trees burn and fall, as homes are reduced to ash, as historic structures are threatened....

I have insurance. If "my" place burns I'll get some money to spend. It will be a very poor substitute for the bit of paradise lost. Somehow, whatever happens, I know I will return to that Indian grinding rock. I will sit with new knowledge, with new grief and/or joy, depending upon what the immediate future brings. I will sing and I will pray. I will embrace the sounds of the ancients who were there before me and lift up those who come after me. I will sit and walk and live with new awareness that life is a gift, that everything is on loan to us from those who come after, and that absolutely nothing is within our power to control except ourselves.

A Sure Thing

2007-06-23T20:42:00.000-07:00

There are so few certainties in life -- so few things we can truly count on. So, it's kind of comforting when a new certainty emerges, or at least makes itself known to us.

Kind of.

My new certainty in life has to do with what doctors say will happen vs. what will actually happen. I know, I know. I've been a major medical consumer for going on two decades. I should have figured this out a long time ago. Maybe I'm a slow learner.

What the doctor said this week was, "This procedure won't hurt. You'll be able to do normal activities right away. You can wear shoes and go hiking this weekend."

The procedure was the permanent removal of ingrown toenails. Both sides of both large toenails were cut to the quick, and then the quick was cauterized so they wouldn't regrow. I was going to be pain-free for the rest of my life. My toes were going to be cute again. I'd be able to put polish on them and wear open toed shoes again. Aside from the shot to numb each toe, I'd been warned by those who'd gone before, it was a breeze and totally worth it.

Right.

It isn't a shot that numbs the toe. It's several shots, all around the base of the toe. And it doesn't just hurt. It HURTS! Once things are numbed up, though, it really is pretty much a piece of cake. Well, until the numbness wears off, anyway.

Being of strong stomach , I watched the procedure. I silently marvelled that such mangling of flesh could result in painless and almost instantaneous healing.

It couldn't. It can't. It didn't.

This isn't my first experience with such -- what? Deception? Ignorance? But it's the experience that placed the proverbial straw that broke the proverbial camel's back.

This I now know is certain: If the doctor says it won't hurt, it will. If the doctor says it will hurt a little, it will hurt a lot. If the doctor says it's no big deal, it's a big deal. If the doctor says you'll be wearing shoes and hiking by the weekend, clear your calendar.

One other thing is certain: From now on, when a doctor plans to perform a procedure on me I'm asking whether that doctor has experienced the procedure from the patient's side. If not, I'm talking to someone who has experienced the procedure recently to learn just what to expect.

If by some chance a doctor reads this, please note: Don't say it won't hurt. Say it will hurt or at least that it might hurt. Say that it might take several days before things are normal again. That way, if it doesn't hurt and we do return to normal right away we'll be surprised and happy instead of disappointed and grumpy.

Of Church, Pentecost and Basketball

2007-06-03T13:13:00.000-07:00

We went to church this morning.
Today is not Pentecost Sunday.
I'm not sure what to do with the basketball.

The above are the important points to this blog entry, and here's why:

We went to church this morning. That's a significant statement because it's the first Sunday we've gone to church in probably two months, if not longer. The reason we went today is less important than the reasons we haven't gone recently and aren't likely to go again in the near future. The reason we went was to honor a dear friend who is retiring from youth ministry after thirteen years.

Part of what I want you to understand about this retirement is that she's a volunteer. She's never been paid a penny for the countless hours she's devoted to youth. In fact, she was a very important adult friend to my daughter during my daughter's teen years. That she is now a dear friend of mine as well is all the greater blessing.

Another part of what I want you to understand about this retirement is that she wasn't especially looking to retire. Youth ministry was a joy that fed her at least as much as she fed others through it. In recent years, youth ministry at our church has changed to a point that it was no longer a joy and many of the youth workers (including me) no longer felt our efforts were wanted or appreciated. And so most of us have moved on.

When I moved on, I moved to the place I felt called, which was music ministry. I joined the large choir and enjoyed blending my voice with those around me as well as the opportunities to share solo vocal offerings. I was fed by that music community and felt I was able to feed others in return. Alas, that ministry also underwent a drastic change that resulted in dwindling numbers of singers and fewer opportunities to grow as musicians.

Still, I could have hung in with that, but the worship service itself also changed. Now there is much reading of litany. In unison, the congregation is asked to read aloud words written anonymously and which make me think of the heaped up empty words and phrases warned against in scripture. When we read in unison, we are focused more on whether our voices are in sync with the others around us than on the meaning of the words we utter. When it is time for the pastoral prayer, gone is the sense of spirit-led on-the-spot sharing by the pastor. Instead, we hear a well-prepared writing that may or may not have real meaning to us as a congregation.

Then the sermons. The sermons seem to swing from rehashed stuff we've heard countless times before to lectures about how we oughta quit bitchin' and just let the professional clergy do their jobs. (Way to make the laity feel valued, Reverend!) Every once in a great while, a pastor speaks from the heart about their journey as a person of faith, and those sermons make us laugh and cry and feel a sense of companionship on the road. But they are far too rare, all these factors caused us to leave most services feeling depleted and sad.

So now you know why we haven't been attending church lately.

Today is not Pentecost Sunday, but our church observed Pentecost today. Pentecost is the birthday of the Christian church -- the celebration of the day the holy spirit entered the hearts and minds and lives of Jesus' followers. The thing is, last week was actually Pentecost Sunday. Often described by pastors as the single most important observance of the church calendar, our church delayed the observance because last week was Memorial Day weekend.

If the thinking was that it would be disrespectful to celebrate Pentecost on a day when we're also remembering the war dead, this delay might be excusable. But that's not what happened. See, in Sacramento, Memorial Day weekend is also Jazz Jubilee weekend. Jazz musicians and lovers of jazz come from near and far to participate in this rollicking tribute to primarily Dixieland jazz, and they do it each and every Memorial Day weekend.

Because the jazz thing is pretty pervasive in Sacramento, many local churches choose to have jazz bands provide the music for their worship services on Memorial Day weekend. Why the presence of a jazz band might preclude observing Pentecost, I do not know. I stopped understanding the motivation of our church leadership long ago. What it is is what it is and it isn't working for me. That I know, and perhaps I need know no more.

In any case, now you, Dear Reader, know why it matters to me that today is not Pentecost Sunday.

I'm not sure what to do with the basketball. The sermon today was delivered by none other than our district superintendent -- the person charged with assigning clergy to the local congregations. The guy who sent us the most recent pastoral change that seems to have precipitated the above described changes about which I lament. So, I was pretty interested to hear what his not-really-Pentecost message would be, and it was actually a good one. He likened Pentecost to a basketball game where we are players and after watching the ball pass from one player to another, we suddenly find the ball passed to us. God doesn't call us to be spectators. God calls us to be players. The holy spirit enters us and we're supposed to do something about it -- to do something because of it.

Well, right on! But here's the rub: What happens if the thing you hear God calling you to do is neither honored nor welcomed by your home church?

Think about that a minute.

You're an active member of a church community where you have joyfully served, joyfully tithed, joyfully welcomed opportunities to learn and grow and deepened your understanding of God. You've built relationships in this place. You've invested your time and talents into various ministries. You've anticipated the joy of watching seeds you've planted sprout and grow and eventually bloom and even plant seeds of their own. This is your faith family. You love them at least as much as you love your actual family. You have felt loved and valued and needed in this place. But then things change and many of those to whom you've been closest leave. Some of the ministries to which you've given so much are either altered beyond recognition or abandoned altogether.

And so, you find yourself doing other things at worship time. You do things that feel important and worthwhile; things that seem to make a difference; things that make you feel different -- even needed. You find yourself not missing worship services at all, even after years and years of faithful weekly attendance. You don't miss worship, but you do miss the worshippers. You miss their faces, their voices, their hugs, their prayer requests and their promises to pray for you.

Still, the weeks and then the months go by and you suddenly realize that despite conscientiously signing the "pew pad" each week that you did attend, somehow your absence has not been noted. You wonder whether it's really that no one has noticed your absence, or whether it's that they appreciate your absence. Perhaps you asked too many questions; raised too many concerns. Perhaps the people charged with noticing who's there and who isn't just dropped the ball where you're concerned, or perhaps they're really hopeful you've found a new worship community and that if they don't do or say anything about it they'll never have to deal with you again.

Perhaps I've just become cynical, but I've got this basketball in my hands and my church doesn't seem to want me to play on their team, yet I'm not eager to change teams. So I'm taking my ball and playing pick-up games in other places. I'm passing the ball and it's being played and then it's making it's way back to me until the next time and place in which a game gets going.

Does that make me some kind of lay circuit rider?

Meanwhile our tithe continues to go faithfully to our home church, where some good things are being done with it. We continue to pray for our home church and our sisters and brothers there. We love them and miss them and hope one day to again feel wanted and needed by them. We pray for a time when the leadership of our church recognizes (as previous leaders have) that rocking the boat is one of the things followers of Christ are supposed to do -- that the priesthood of all believers is a real thing not to be discounted by clergy.

Anyway, now you know why I'm not sure what to do with the basketball.

River Cats?

2007-05-19T23:24:00.000-07:00

My mother is a clever and sensible senior citizen. Very little gets past her. So, when I mentioned we would be attending the River Cats game tonight, there was a pause before she asked the unanswerable question so often asked of Sacramento Triple-A baseball fans: "What is a river cat?"

I inherited enough of my mother's sensibility to answer, "No one knows."

After she laughed at that, I went on to explain that the mascot is a large gray cat who wears a River Cats uniform and occasionally performs spectacular break dancing. I also explained that the logo features a fierce gray feline with very large teeth and claws.

How anyone came up with this I will probably never know. The river part makes sense. With the Sacramento and American Rivers converging downtown, Sacramento is known, among other things, as River City.

We're also Camellia City, The City of Trees and the California State Capitol. Some still refer to us as a cow town, but we're not. Trust me. Most of the cows have been displaced by subdivisions and the roadways that connect them. Our wonderful canopy of trees is rudely pierced by new high rises that block the view of the capitol dome from all but a few strategic points, most of which don't lend themselves to stopping to admire it.

But I digress.

The "river" part makes perfect sense. No problem there. It's the cat thing where things get a little weird. I'm told that cats can swim when they have to, and that some rare few cats actually enjoy getting wet. There are bobcats along the American River Parkway, and even the occasional cougar is sighted there as well. But none of them are gray and, really, cats just aren't a big part of what Sacramento is about.

Apparently the minor league team naming committee felt the need to come up with something fierce so we would scare the other teams. We have river otters here, but they're way too cute. We have river rats, too, but that might not be the image the committee was seeking. We have beavers, but the Padres' little brothers in Portland already took that. So, the committee voted and we got the River Cats. Dumb name, decent team most years, fun club -- what more could we want, right? Anyway, our parent team is the Oakland Athletics. How were we to build on that? Call our team the River Jocks? Picture that mascot!

I only just realized the other day that we are hardly alone in having a Triple-A team with a nonsensical name. While the Diamondbacks' minor league team is called the Sidewinders and the Cardinals have the Memphis Redbirds, few other Pacific Coast League teams have names that mesh so nicely. Check this out:

Triple-A Team: Major League Team

Salt Lake Bees: Angels

Honey makers and divine beings.

Colorado Springs Sky Sox: Rockies

Um... What's a Sky Sock? They beat us tonight; I know that.

Portland Beavers: Padres

Big teeth and priests? Hm.

Tacoma Rainiers: Mariners

Big mountain and seafarers.

Fresno Grizzlies: Giants

OK, the grizzly is on our state flag, but there hasn't been a wild grizzly in California in decades. However, grizzlies are gigantic.

Las Vegas 51's: Dodgers

(51's? Is that a gambling thing? I wouldn't know.)

Iowa Cubs: Cubs

Omaha Royals: Royals

(Desperately unimaginative and redundant.)

Nashville Sounds: Brewers

Enjoying a pint while digging the sounds of Nashville clubs?

Albuquerque Isotopes: Marlins

Radioactive ocean fish?

Oklahoma Redhawks: Rangers

New Orleans Zephyrs: Mets

Round Rock Express: Astros

Um, yeah. Whatever.

So, we have our River Cats. They play a generally good game at a family friendly field where there are no bad seats, and it's pretty affordable for the average Jane or Joe, while also catering to the wealthy, high, mighty and reclusive. Heck, for five bucks you can plant a lawn chair on Home Run Hill and let your kids goof around without bothering anybody too much, and if you go on Thursday, hot dogs are only a buck. That's a pretty tough deal to beat.

So, it's after midnight, I've said my bit about our team, and now I'm going to lie down before I fall down. "Take me out to the ball game......zzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz......."

The Cat Who Didn't Tell All

2007-04-27T10:36:00.000-07:00

Anyone who has no life and therefore is paying attention to my reading list has noticed that I've been reading "The Cat Who..." mysteries for quite some time. I'm actually on the 17th book in the series, and planning to take a break after the 19th while I shop used book stores for the 20th.

This seems like a good time to discuss why I like these books. Oddly, I'm not all that enthused about cats, and especially Siamese (the breed featured in this series). They do amuse me from a distance, and the rare cat that thinks it's a dog can be a true delight. So, what is it about these books?

For one thing, the premise is silly, and in a world that is all but silly these days, a little silliness is good for one's mental health. I also like that the characters develop from one book to the next. Like a soap opera in book form, cartoonishly improbable individuals move in and out of the pages, falling in and out of love, living and dying and sometimes murdering.

About those murders: some are gruesome, but you only know that in your imagination. Crime scenes are described only to the extent that you get the picture and your brain takes it from there; truly refreshing compared to most of what I read and watch. Likewise the romances: the character's sex lives are alluded to; you get the picture without being forced to watch; again, a very refreshing departure from the usual.

So, now you know why "The Cat Who..." mysteries has been at the top of my list for so long. And you weren't even wondering.

Bellies Full, They Starve to Death

2007-04-18T13:34:00.000-07:00

It's criminal, the impact we humans make on wildlife -- perhaps most especially wildlife at sea. No creature on this planet impacts life on the planet as much as human beings. We have the unprecedented capacity to make a real difference, for better or for worse, and so far we're making things worse.

Hubby and I no longer stroll along the American River Parkway here in Sacramento, nor along ocean beaches or alpine lakes and streams. We no longer simply take in the beauty and wonder of it all, rejoicing in creation and Creator. Now we take plastic bags and heavy gloves and even a long pole with a sieve on the end. We've noticed the litter for years, of course, but we were on vacation, or we were out for a stroll. We were there to relax; not to save the world.

I had an epiphany. It was suddenly unconscionable for us to enjoy those places without doing something about the mess others had left there. Suddenly I had a moral imperative to never visit those places without making them better than I found them. No matter that I wasn't the one who dropped the litter. No matter that it wasn't fair. No matter that somebody ought to do something to prevent the problem in the first place. No matter that everybody ought to do something! I'm somebody, and I have to do something, so I do.

Naturally, Hubby has to help because it's his wife's epiphany, and no spouse experiences an epiphany in isolation. Not that he minds. He knows the need, and he shares the moral imperative. It's just that one of us had to wake up and speak up first, and this time it happened to be me.

I would have thought this new angle on enjoying nature would have taken some of the fun out of our outings, but the opposite is true. We still see the same beauty, and we absolutely take time to just soak it in. Indeed, we're spending so much more time in natural settings now that we're doing this, that we're gaining in appreciation and understanding of what we see.

We're no longer observers. We're participants. We rejoice in creation and Creator, plus we do our bit as creatures to help other creatures who can't help themselves. It's a tiny difference we're making, but it's a difference, and we see others with their plastic bags doing their part too. We're becoming a community of creatures tending creation. It feels great.

This Spring when we watch baby ducks cling to their moms' tail feathers as they paddle upstream, we'll know for certain that there are many fewer yards of fishing line to ensnare them, to choke them, to starve them. Many fewer bottle caps and lumps of Styrofoam for them to mistake for food. Fewer mounds of broken glass to cut them. Fewer bottles and cans to jam up the natural flow of the waterways. Fewer hooks, floats and weights. Fewer balloons and the ribbons that tied them. We will observe the herons and egrets and beavers and muskrats and, if we're extremely fortunate, even river otters, and know we ourselves made a difference for them.

Every bit of litter we retrieve from lakes, rivers and storm drains is one less piece destined for the sea. At the ocean, we can delight in the seals and otters and cormorants and pelicans, knowing we make a difference to them as well, whether we pick up litter at the seashore or inland. We make a difference.

When we make a difference for them, we make a difference for us. We know that every creature of Earth is connected to every other creature of earth. Every time we harm a wild creature, we harm ourselves. Every time we help a wild creature, we help ourselves. If we all understand that and behave accordingly, we get Utopia, but even if just most of us understand that and behave accordingly, we get a much healthier planet.

This planet -- this lovely blue ball spinning in space -- is the only home we have. We can't just mess it up and then move to another. All we have is here. All we have is now. We get one lifetime in which to make a difference. I look at the current U.S. leadership and feel powerless. I look at Iraq and feel powerless. I look at Darfur and feel powerless. I look at the section of the American River which I frequent and I know I can make a difference to that section. "Brighten the corner where you are." Instead of drowning in powerlessness, grab the power that is yours to make a difference in the place in which you find yourself.

The moment I become aware of a way to make a difference in Washington, in Iraq, in Darfur, I'll do it, and I won't feel powerless about them anymore. (Yes, I write letters, but I still feel powerless, OK?) Meanwhile, I'm empowered about taking care of right here, right now, and I hope you are too.

Living With A Time Bomb

2007-04-09T11:27:00.000-07:00

I've mentioned before that I have Crohn's Disease, but I haven't really written about it here. Not that it's a secret or anything -- I mean, why would it be? The thing is that I've been really healthy lately. I've been in remission.

Recently, however, my body has suggested that all is not well. There have been minor indications that the remission was ending. Easter Sunday morning, of all times, I awoke to a full-blown attack. I'll spare you the details, but it was not fun.

Since the initial attack eased up, I've remained in pain. I don't want to go out of the house because I don't know when the next bit of pain is going to hit, or how bad it will be. Just a fleeting grimmace noticed only if someone happens to be looking at that moment? Or the kind that doubles me over, takes my breath away, for which I resort to labor breathing?

Every day of my life I know this can happen. Every night I go to sleep knowing I can wake up with this the next morning. It's a time bomb in my gut with no indicator to tell me when it will go off, and no way to defuse it.

Today, when I'm not reading a "Cat Who..." book or writing a blog entry, I'm focused on this pain in the gut. What can I eat? Can I eat at all? Is it time to resort to a liquid diet until things calm down? What effect did that small bowl of cereal have? How about that slice of bread? Do I dare try some canned fruit?

I remind myself that not all days are like this. Lately, most days are not like this. With TLC and a bit of luck, I'll soon be my usual self -- going to work, running errands, enjoying the company of friends. That is where my energy needs to be right now -- focused on the prize. The prize will be resuming a normal life. Whether it takes a day, a week, a month or a year, that is the prize.

That's the trick to living with a time bomb: every chance you get, you live as if it isn't there.

Knitting in church

2007-04-05T13:56:00.000-07:00

Knitting in church! Isn't that disruptive?

Well, no, actually. There are folks who knit, folks who crochet, folks who do embroidery, sketching, and poetry writing. Some of these activities are fairly brainless, and for some people they actually aid concentration in church. Some build on what is said in church. I've seen some wonderful art and poetry emerge from worship experiences.

So, the new associate pastor arrived something like two years ago, a self-proclaimed knit-wit. It proved contagious. Some of our youth took up knitting too. They sit in the front row and knit throughout the service. Some people complain, but I'll tell you -- it beats what the youths sitting in the back row are doing.

In the front row, they hear what's happening, take it in, mull it over, and discuss it intelligently after the service. In the back row, they text message each other or pass notes, they whisper, they giggle, they annoy people around them, some of them grope each other until an adult notices and puts a stop to it, and you may be quite sure they have neither a solid idea of what the service was about nor the ability to discuss it.

Knitting in church? I'm all for it! (Just use bamboo needles. They land more quietly if they slip from one's fingers.)

Of Macy's, Perfume and the Bee

2007-04-03T20:03:00.000-07:00

At the risk of making the Sacramento Bee very unhappy with me, I must tell anyone who reads this what I have learned about print media and perfumed ads.

First off, for those who don't know, lots of people are allergic to perfumes -- some dangerously so.

Second, there are regulations having to do with placing perfume samples in print ads. They have to be sealed in such a way that only those wishing to smell the sample will do so.

Third, Macy's consistently ignores the regulations.

Fourth, if you complain to the Bee about the perfume ads they can put you on a list of subscribers who need to not receive perfumed ads. The Bee knows ahead of time which dates Macy's plans to ignore regulations. The Bee actually has its carriers remove the offending ads from the papers destined for those on the list -- when the system works.

Fifth, the system doesn't always work.

Sixth, if you request a credit for the day your paper made you sneeze, cough, gag, grab your inhaler and/or go the the emergency room, they will graciously give you that credit.

Bottom line: The Bee takes very good care of Macy's. I'm boycotting Macy's until they promise to stop putting unsealed perfume samples in newspapers. If there were another local daily, I'd boycott the Bee, too. Alas, they are the only local daily, so I will settle for credits for the days they goof.

Yes, I really am anal enough to keep track and hold them to it, and I hope you are too. Breathers unite!!