Twenty Years — David K. Buchholz

On June 26th, 2004 Jadyne and I drove a packed U-Haul truck to 330 Rugby Avenue with half of our worldly possessions, emptied the truck, returned and came back later with the other half. Exhausted John nearly cried when he saw the overloaded second U-Haul truck arrive. Jadyne stood on the loading dock with her sandals sticking out under the truck bed. Had I not stopped the dock as it raised up in time she would have lost/injured her toes. It was a day. Twenty years ago.

Much has changed in the past twenty years. There are only eighteen houses on Rugby Avenue. Many of our neighbors have moved. At least ten have died. We didn’t know anyone when we moved here twenty years ago. We didn’t know our neighbors then. After twenty years we still don’t know some today. Here they are as I see and remember them.

Rugby Neighbors Twenty Years Ago

Cecile and Jamie’s house next to ours. Jamie worked for Bechtel. He died soon after we moved to Rugby. Cecile, however, remained in the house until she died, too. Cecile was strongly opinionated. Warned by her daughters not to bring up George Bush’s name in conversation, we didn’t. For a while. I cut her grass, changed light bulbs, simply watched out for her. Her three daughters told us that if we weren’t living next door they would have sold the house and moved her to an assisted living home.

When driving wasn’t in the cards she sold her beloved Mercedes to the UPS driver. We miss her dearly. Now living in the house are Ursula and her two children. Ursula is Kahlil’s sister, the family who technically lives next door down a long driveway frequented by daily Amazon and UPS drivers. We never see Ursula or her two children. I wouldn’t recognize them if we did. Neighbors in name only.

Henry moved away perhaps ten years ago. He was close to 100 years old. An engineer, Henry didn’t invent linoleum, but was rumored to have been involved in its development. Henry’s son moved him into an assisted living quarters several years ago, and we assume that he has passed. A developer bought the house for 400k, fixed it up, then sold it to a Chinese family for a million dollars. Their kids went to Cal. The house was sold again to Bill and Kay. Kay is Amber’s mother, Kahlil’s wife. We’re sandwiched in a Yearwood compound. Three houses, one family.

Janet is a widow. Cancer took Larry two years ago. I photographed his beloved BMW 540i for auction, driving him home in his car from the hospital days before he died. We said goodbye to Larry a day or two before he passed. Larry and Janet were/are always well-dressed. I was reminded of what a slob I am when I passed them. We went to Larry’s burial. An avid golfer, Larry shot his age a year before he died. At the cemetery mourners added golf balls to Larry’s plot. The funeral director, seeing them tossed in with his ashes, commented that they were now in an unplayable lie. True, dat.

Sunana and her husband’s home. Sunana is an attorney. I think he is, too. I don’t know his name. I wouldn’t recognize either of them. They have never attended any neighborhood gatherings.

This used to be Josie’s house. Josie was a friend. A self-described “JewBu,” meaning born Jewish but spiritually Buddhist, Josie used to teach at Spirit Rock, *“a community dedicated to the liberation of all beings through Insight Meditation, Dharma teachings, and mindfulness,”* in Marin County. I took a meaningful year long class from her called *“A Year to Live,”* based on an eponymous book. Each month we engaged in behaviors preparing us for death. One month we were asked to give to one of the ten or twelve class members something unique and of value to illustrate that you leave everything behind when you die. I gave away a clock that I had given to Uncle Rowland one Christmas. I had rescued it from his estate when he died in 2000.
On the last day of class we officially “died.” We went down to Solano Avenue and were asked to consider that all that we saw would still be there, groceries would open, trucks would deliver goods, people would place stamps on letters. I went to Starbucks and sat in a chair, watching people line up for lattes, mochas, croissants, couples chatting, students on laptops. I sat alone in a chair, watching all. No one looked at me. Sobering.
Josie was from England. In her youth she walked from England to India. She was raped twice. Last year she decided that after living in the US for forty years she would return to England for the rest of her life. She sold her house, moved back to London. The Chinese female attorney that bought the house doesn’t take care of the yard. She has a son. I’ve never seen her, although she lives four houses away. Josie was a jewel.

The second-to-last house on our side of the street. Don’t know them. I think she’s a policewoman. I wouldn’t know her or her husband (?).

The corner of Rugby and Yale. John and Reenie Rheem. Their middle-aged son died a few years ago after a bike ride Neighbors gathered at their house. I brought my guitar. We all sang “Amazing Grace.” Reenie died last year. She especially asked Jadyne and me to come and say goodbye to her, too, telling us how grateful she was for our trying to make the neighborhood something more than just houses and a street.

John and Reenie a day or two before she passed.

John moved to a senior home, then returned with a woman that he met there. His license plate was POW. He lived in the Phillippines during WW II as a boy and was taken captive by the Japanese. He is a retired Oakland policeman.

Amy, pictured below, is their daughter. She has MD and a full-time caregiver. We haven’t seen her outside for years. She has a lovely voice, and when she was in better health, gave a concert.

Crossing the Street

We think the Asian couple has lived here for the last twenty years. They came to a neighborhood potluck we sponsored last year. The first and only time we've ever seen them.

Sam and Angela’s house. Wonderful people. Angela gave birth a year ago. Sam is from New Zealand. Angela wakes early, swims two miles before returning to take care of their baby. We don’t see them socially, but we like them. They’re happy being a part of the neighborhood.

They bought the house after Jim Gallardo died and his widow, Vi, moved to the East Coast with family. Vi was a volunteer at the Turnabout shop, enlisting Jadyne to join. Jim served in WWII and was a docent on a ship in SF Bay. He gave tours.

George lives here. I saw him last week as he headed to Mono County to look for birds. He’s a serious twitcher. (Aren’t they all?) When he retired from UCB I persuaded him to join the Berkeley Food Pantry as a volunteer. Harvard educated, computer savvy, George’s skills helped bring a shoebox Rolodex operation into the 21st century.

Nancy is a single woman three months older than I am. She taught at Berkeley HS. One of her projects was to ask her students to write letters to themselves in the future. She kept the letters, then mailed them to the students five, ten, twenty years later. One of her students made a movie about her, shown on NPR. We went to see it at a theater. Fabulous. The movie showed the students opening the letters, reading the thoughts they had composed years earlier, then comparing them to what they were experiencing today. Very moving.

Nancy is also a photographer, has a good eye, photographs people in loving and affectionate ways.

Charlie Patton and Nancy. Charlie, his wife Donna, and their daughter Eva rented the house next door until he received an inheritance from his mother, which gave him enough money to buy a house. Charlie, Donna, and Eva were treasured neighbors, but they’re gone. They own a Yoga studio in Bali, you know, just like everyone else.

This was their house, now owned by Melanie and Cameron who just had a baby. We only recognize them because we know their dog. They are probably the couple with the baby carriage walking the dog.

Cathy Weeks (I’m using her maiden name), one of four Weeks. At least one of them has lived here for the last twenty years.

Kay died first. She fell and broke both her ankles. Their “living” area is on the second floor so it was weeks before she could come home. Russ died in a senior facility at the age of a year or two past 100, leaving the house to Grant, one of the strangest people I’ve ever met. About forty years ago Jim Patton (next neighbor) discovered that Grant tipped over his garbage can every night before pickup, then warned Grant that he would break his neck if he ever did it again. From that point on Grant would cross the street rather than confront Jim again. Forty years.

When Kay fell I offered to walk their airedale, Peggy Sue, so Russ could visit Kay and not have to think about the dog. I unlocked the front door and discovered Grant sitting on a sofa in his underwear. WTF? I didn’t even know they had a son. And why wasn’t Grant able to walk the dog? Kay, Russ, and Grant are gone. Cathy lives there now with two inoperable cars, one in the garage (she can’t find the keys) and one in the driveway. The whole family are Republicans. Figures.

Jim is a retired Professor Emeritus from UCB. He wrote a thousand page book called “The Rodents of South America.” He’s been shipwrecked five or six times. Carol taught. We love the Pattons. Their pet turtles have the run of the house. They take several trips a year to collect specimens. camping in remote mountain areas for weeks at a time, often in Death Valley, but always as far away from civilization as possible. They’ve lived in this house for more than fifty years.

Below. Ten year old Carys probably five or six years ago.

Jen and Alvin Lumanlan live directly across the street. They have a ten year old daughter, Carys, who they home school. Or Jen does. She has a paying website called “Your Parenting Mojo.” Alvin has been unemployed for a number of years. He rides his bikes. Here’s what I wrote about them five years ago: “Alvin has been trying to make a go of a photography portrait business, and Jen hosts a website called “Your Parenting Mojo.” Carys is the subject of about 90% of Alvin’s images, and is a precocious five year old. The Lumanlans are adventurers, having cycled much of the Tour de France, including the steepest hills. In the rain. Jen backpacked through the Alps with baby Carys. They hike. They cycle. And like everyone else, they struggle in these uncertain times.” Jen wrote a book about parenting. We have no idea how well it’s going. They just returned from a trip to the Northwest, stayed one day, then left for a couple of months to house sit in southern Utah. “Why?” I asked. “Because we can,” Jen answered, as the Audi wagon with three bikes headed up the street.

The Boys, then Farrah and Anthony, Nigel and Celine, then?????

Tears.

We had two gay friends who lived next door. They moved to New Jersey several years ago and this summer are moving back. They bought a house in Sacramento, so we’ll see them more often than we have. They were great neighbors.

Nick, Russ, two dogs and two cats. Only Nick and Russ remain.

And why tears? We loved "The Boys,” candidates for the world’s greatest neighbors. But they sold the house to Farrah and Anthony, whom we have loved as much as the boys. Here they are as I photographed them about five years ago with their two children, Nigel (now 10) and Celine (now 8).

I’ve always had a crush on Farrah. She was named for Farrah Fawcett. She has a brother Marlon, one named Marcello, and a sister Marilyn. Farrah spent weeks in the Stanford Hospital after her spleen was removed. We weren’t sure whether she would survive. They’re a wonderful family, but by July 1st they’ll be gone. Hence, the tears. The house goes on the market on August 1st.

Davi, Guillermo,and Nico (who graduated from UCSB this week) Davi makes jewelry, Guiillermo, an economist, fled Spain and Franco. He makes a paella to die for. They have lived here almost as long as we have. We love them, too, and hope they have no plans to move.

And that takes us back to the Flinchbaughs. Sally, Glenn, Jack, and Tess moved into the house directly behind us just weeks before we did.

…and our real next door neighbors, the Flinchbaughs, at a neighborhood farewell party for them. Sally manages the Jewish Community Center in Palo Alto. Glenn’s expertise is software. It’s been about ten years now since they moved.
Top row. Russell (one of the boys) moved, Carol and Jim (still here), Cecile (passed), Chris Anderson (still here, living on another street), Glenn Flinchbaugh, David Anderson, (retired cardiologist, married to Chris), Guillermo and Davi (still here), Rachel (divorced and gone), Jen Lumanlan, (Your Parenting Mojo), Isla, David.
Second row: Nick (moved with Russell), Alvin Lumanlan (before Carys was born), Jadyne, Jennifer, Sally Flinchbaugh, Jason, Andrew.
Third row. Tess Flinchbaugh (senior at UCLA), Jack Flinchbaugh (graduated from Tufts last year), Nico (UCSB graduate), Reed Flinchbaugh (Palo Alto HS grad this year), Susanto (14), and Hawthorn (15). Time has its way.
I can’t say enough about how fond we are and always have been of the Flindhbaughs. We babysat the two older kids when Sally gave birth to Reed; we also babysat them after Sally was struck by a bicycle and came inches away from not being in this photograph.
Now living there are Amber, Tomas, Kahlil, and their youngest, Eva. I took this image eight years ago before Eva was born.

We were once friends. Now, not so much. They bought a second house in Sonoma and go back and forth between them. They don’t talk to either Jadyne or me. Kahlil’s mother, Inez, lives there and takes care of the garden. We like her.

It’s been twenty years. The Flinchbaughs moved, Cecile died, Henry died, Larry Johnson died, but Janet lives in their house, Sunana and what’s his name remain invisible, Josie went back to England, two more unknowns, Reenie died, and across the street the Asians are still there, Jim Gallardo died and Vi moved (replaced by Sam and Angela), George and Nancy are still there, the rental house with the invisible family is there, possibly sending out more invitations for gifts to people they don'‘t know, Charlie and Donna moved, Kathy Weeks remains in a house that should be condemned, Jim and Carol are still here, the Lumanlans are in St. George, Utah, Farrah and Anthony will be gone soon, and Davi and Guillermo remain. Twenty years. We’re still here, but many of the people we loved aren’t. To quote a former President, “Sad.”