A Day With Kennedy

Ted’s at Tahoe, so the weekly Friday Tilden hike didn’t took place.  Instead Jadyne and I left home by 7:30 and headed east to Sacramento for Grandparents Day.  As usual, I had no idea what was going to take place this Friday.  I just knew that I was to show up.  We arrived at 1370 Weller Way at 9:00, fifteen minutes before Lillian, Jadyne, and MaryAnn Slater were to go to “high tea” at Lillian’s kindergarten class, an event that was scheduled to last a painfully long two and a half hours.  “David,” Kim said, “It’s a day for you with Kennedy.  He has a cold, but I’m sure you’ll have a good time.” 

Turning to Kennedy, who was whining when we arrived, Kim asked, “Kennedy, would you like to go to the park with Granddad?” “No!” "Go on the swings?" “No!” “Go for a walk in the neighborhood?" “No! he wailed, “I want to go with you.” Kill me now.  Three hours with a sick, whiny three-year old who doesn’t want to do anything. 

“Kennedy,” Kim implored, “How would you like to go to Fairytale Town?” “Ok,’ he said, mostly under his breath.

Armed with the Buchholz family pass for Kennedy and a $4.75 admission for me, I plopped Kennedy into the car seat and drove the mile or so up the road to Fairytale Town, a fifties style amusement park for toddlers and pre-schoolers.  A two seater pumpkin on wheels led by four tethered horses (Cinderella), a slide down a giant old lady’s shoe (The Old Woman Who Lived in a Shoe), soft mats, tunnels, and of course, Mr. McGregor’s garden.  Kennedy selected one after another of the hanging plastic watering cans, then poured the contents on the soil, previously saturated by gallons and gallons of water poured by countless little children under the mistaken belief that they were actually helping the plants, though in fact, I thought I could hear the faint screams coming from the leaves who were pleading for the children to go away.  When one watering can was empty, Kennedy carefully hung it up and took another, repeating the process, oh, about twenty times. 

Moving on, we found a yellow tunnel.  Kennedy was equally adept at going down as well as climbing up.

“Kennedy, you can go up or down as many times as you like,” I said, knowing that we still had about two hours to fill.  Up and down, then down and up the yellow tunnel for at least fifteen minutes.  It’s now 10:15.  “Let’s go to King Arthur’s Round Table,” I suggested, “and you can sit in King Arthur’s throne.” 

Two minutes max.  It’s 10:20.

We rode Cinderella’s horses, ate an ice cream “pop up”, went down more slides, saw the goats, rabbits, and Eeyore, the donkey, finally finishing up on the Jack and the Beanstalk slide.  Upside down and headfirst, of course.

Home for lunch and peace and quiet.  John was in court all morning and Kim had three more hours of work.  Jadyne and I put Kennedy down for a nap. “I think I hear Kennedy crying,” Jadyne said, “Would you go see if you can quiet him down?”  John and Kim’s bedroom was dark, but little puddles of light leaked out from beneath the closet door, where Kennedy sat on the floor, in tears.  I picked him up, then lay down on the bed on my back with Kennedy on top.  “Kennedy, “ I began, “I just want you to know that I had the most wonderful time with you today…you went down the slide so many times and so fast that I couldn’t keep up with you at all…and those plants are going to grow so big because you were so thoughtful to water them…and I just want you to know how much I love you…and what a special child you are…and that I’m so happy that you’re my grandson because you’re so special and so smart and I’m so happy to have this time to spend with you…and I went on and on, and as the sniveling stopped, the body grew quiet, and he continued to hug me. Jadyne snuck in, thinking we were asleep

And so it went.  Soon we were playing with the marble raceway, riding a scooter, and I was reminded why Jadyne and I wanted children almost a half century ago, and why all the stuffy heads, the sniveling, and the tears were all welcome pieces of this grand puzzle that have been the best part of our lives over the last forty-seven years.

Uncle Rowland

I've always remembered Uncle Rowland's birthday, as it fell two days after mine.  He and his twin brother Andrew would have been 100 years old on Tuesday, July 11th, 2017.  Andrew died about twenty-five years ago and Rowland on Memorial Day, 2000.  It was fitting that Rowland, after beating one of his friends in tennis, (he was an excellent tennis player) woke up the following morning, bathed, and as he was dressing dropped to the floor.

Rowland was one of the most complicated people I ever knew.  Never married, he was conservative to the core, embraced old-school prejudices, despised liberals, drove Chevrolets (which he traded in every two years; as a salesman he didn't want to drive anything that would make it appear that he was too successful) , flew an American flag, served in the Air Force, loved tennis and young male tennis players (I never knew whether he was gay or not, but if he was, he was not only in the closet, but he locked it behind him), drank gallons of Coca-Cola in six and a half ounce glass bottles, (to which he referred to only by that name, not "Coke"), was always well-dressed, loved the symphony but never listened to music and couldn't sing, appreciated design in all things—clothes, furniture, and art, had little tolerance for stupidity or bad taste, and was generous to both people and institutions such as museums and charitable foundations.

It was his love and generosity to people that I knew best.  My father died when I was six weeks old, and Rowland, a bachelor, took his place.  He took me and my brother to Cincinnati's Union Terminal to watch the trains, to Coney Island, an unwilling passenger in the" Dodge-Em" electric bumper cars. He bought us Greater's ice cream cones, Frisch's Big Boys, and other treats that were conspicuously absent from our normal diet.  When my mother remarried, Rowland continued with his generosity, paying for tennis lessons for me and other unremembered acts of kindness.  

Rowland loved the traditional Eastern "good" colleges, and took me to visit three of them in 1962—Duke, Davidson, and UNC.  A year later, when we unexpectedly moved to California, he came west and took me on my first visit to Yosemite.  

Three years later I found myself back in Cincinnati for my brother's wedding.  Disenchanted with my two years at Whitman College I found myself 1-A (draft bait) and because Uncle Rowland invited me to live with him, I walked down the street and enrolled at the University of Cincinnati.

Although he strongly objected to my marrying Jadyne, he, as the rest of my family did, learned to love her.  He was a frequent visitor to our modest home in Oxford, and he flew to California more than once to see us in Santa Rosa.  

On the night before he died, I said to Jadyne, "I have to call Rowland", and even though dinner was on the table I dialed AVon 1-0229.  We hadn't talked for a couple of months, but something made me call him right then.  All was as it was supposed to be.  I remember much of our conversation.  I was the last person to talk to him.

A Fable From the Future

"Grandma, were you alive when Donald Trump was President?"

"No, honey, I wasn't, but your great grandparents told me that it was a very awful time, and many people were sad."

"Why were they so sad?"

"They were sad because Donald Trump always lied, but the people who liked him believed what he had to say. "

"What kind of lies did he tell, Grandma?"

"Honey, he lied about everything. If he ate a peach pie he said it was a hamburger; he said that up was down and left was right. He wanted everyone to love him, too, but he wasn't very nice to anyone.

"What else, Grandma?"

"He thought that only white people should live in America, and he tried to prevent people from other countries to come in, believing that if they didn't speak English before they came they shouldn't be allowed to come at all. He thought it was funny when people who had lived here for many years and had even served in the Army should be sent back to their native countries. He believed that he would be able to beat up all the bad guys in thirty days, but he never even tried because he was a coward; he said it would be very easy to make it possible for everyone to see a doctor, but he didn't do that, either. He loved being rich. He hired people around him to destroy the country just to make themselves rich, too. He was married to a very pretty woman, but he loved money much more than he loved her. And he loved golf just as much as he loved money."

"How did he go away, Grandma?"

"He told all the people who liked him that day was night and night was day, so they drove in their cars all day with their headlights on, and believing that night was day, they turned off their headlights at night. Thousands of them drove into telephone poles, and that helped both the auto and funeral business, which got the country back on track."

"But what about President Trump?"

"Honey, he started believing his own lies. He said, 'I can fly', so he jumped off one of his hotels, planning to fly to Mar a Lago, but his made-in-Vietnam sports coat got caught on the big "T" of his hotel, and there he is to this day swinging in the wind on the 45th floor of his hotel in Chicago."

The Zephyr

The administration has threatened to remove the subsidy that enables Amtrak to operate its long distance trains, including two of our favorites, the Zephyr (Oakland-Chicago), and the Coast Starlight (Seattle- Los Angeles).  We've ridden both and have wonderful (and not so wonderful) memories of our many trips.

Top:  The eastbound Zephyr arriving Glenwood Springs, CO.  Bottom:  The westbound Zephyr arriving Glenwood Springs.

Because my brother-in-law lives in Glenwood Springs, one of the many stops between Oakland and Chicago, it made sense for us to visit via train.  No airline flies into Glenwood Springs, and trips to Denver (4 hours away) or Aspen (one hour) are often diverted because of the unpredictable weather over the Rockies.  (Last year we thought we were flying into Aspen but were diverted to Denver.  No flights until the morning, so we prowled the airport for nine hours) In theory, the Zephyr takes about twenty-two hours to make the trip, but theory and reality often don't mix.  Passengers may be an hour or more late; if you're more than four hours late Amtrak provides a free meal.  We've had several of those.  Here now are some bits and pieces of memories from our trips on the Zephyr::

1.  Santa Claus making a stop in the coach car on a Christmas overnight, wowing our three kids.  

2. Waking up on a chilly winter morning, expecting to see Reno at 6 am.  When we passed Battle Mountain, Nevada, hundreds of miles from Reno we asked the conductor, "Why?"  He said, "When it's below 15 degrees, the train can't go any faster than 10 mph on the frozen steel tracks."

 3. Heading west and coming to a dead stop in the middle of Nowhere, Nevada.  "Folks," the voice on the PA announced, "The track is out ahead of us, but a crew is on its way to replace it."  

4. In the shared tables of the dining car we sat with a farmer and his wife from Kansas.  Returning from dropping off their daughter at Stanford, they expressed their amazement at things California.  "My," the husband exclaimed, "There was a BMW on every corner!"  Knowing that we were from California, he asked, "Do you have one?"  Pausing for effect, I said, "No, we have two."

5. Bringing a bucket of KFC and a pitcher of gin and tonics for the long ride in the coach car to Colorado.

6. Looking out of the observation car as we crossed Donner Summit in a blizzard, seeing hundreds of cars stuck in the snow on Hwy #80, passing the gin and tonics around and feeling warm and grateful to be on the train.  

 7. The thrill of crossing Donner Summit in the winter, passing under ski lift lines, through snow tunnels by Donner Lake.                                                                                                                     

8. Leaving CO on the Fourth of July and seeing parades in Battle Mountain, Reno, and fireworks along the bay.

9. Sitting in the observation car as lightning strikes hit trees and set them aflame, only to find out later that these strikes set the infamous "Storm King Mountain" fire in 1994, which took the lives of fourteen firefighters.

10. A cold night under not enough blankets.  I found an empty roomette.  Ushered the wife and three kids onto beds that would have cost us the proverbial arm and a leg and slept warm and peacefully for hours.

11. We were sound asleep in the middle of the night a few miles west of Salt Lake City when Jadyne received a text from Jennifer, who posted first photographs of Isla, our third grandchild, born minutes earlier in England.

Waiting for trains is part of the experience.

The station in Sacramento.

Greg and Sean love trains.  When they discovered that the Zephyr was towing several vintage cars back to Chicago they paid a premium to ride in one of the fully-restored private cars.  Meals and an open bar were included for the three day ride across the US.  We jumped on with them for the ninety minutes between Emeryville and Sacramento and were feted with both breakfast and a Bloody Mary.

Something wrong with that top photo.  Not only do the cars go back to the 1940's but racial stereotypes do, too.  In the middle are Jadyne's brother Greg and his wife Sean.  The Bottom photo is the bar car.  And below:  The observation car.

When you purchase a sleeper your meals are included.  Here's your chef: (the guy who puts your food in the microwave).

Only once did we take the Coast Starlight.  Beginning in Seattle, the Coast Starlight travels the western seaboard, offering spectacular views of the Pacific and parts of California not visible from the highways.  Sounds wonderful, doesn't it?  We boarded the Coast Starlight in Oakland and before we got to San Jose, one hour south, we lost one of the two engines.  We waited four hours before we could resume our journey, only going half the speed.  Other problems ensued. The train was delayed because freight trains have priority so we waited on sidings; the crew had to be replaced because they had been on duty too long; the engine had to be checked out for safety reasons because it had been running too long; the dining room ran out of food and the bar ran out of booze. Our 6 pm arrival time turned into 2 am the next morning, an eight hour delay.  The length of time it took us to go from Oakland to LA was about the same as it would have taken someone riding a bicycle.  And the views?  When we hit the scenic parts of California it was pitch black.  Alas, this is the state of affairs on Amtrak.

So what do you do on the train?  Play cards, eat, drink, and read.  This is one of my favorite photos of an Amtrak passenger, oblivious to the camera.

At the top I mentioned that some of the experiences were "not so wonderful."  On January 1, 1988 I asked Jadyne, her brother Greg, and her sister Teeny to stand on the tracks as we boarded the train on our way back to Oakland.  Teeny was killed in an avalanche nine days later, and this was the last time we ever saw her, now thirty years ago...

Chris Silva

Chris was a student of mine when I taught at Cardinal Newman HS between 1975-1980.  An intelligent, perceptive, well-spoken and thoroughly delightful young man, he told me the story, now legend, about his trying to get a job as a bagger at Petrini's Supermarket.  When his interview failed to persuade the manager to hire him, Chris handed him his business card, and said, "If something opens up, please consider me."  So impressed was the manager that Chris was hired, moving from bagger to checker, then to student body president at Cardinal Newman and the same at his alma mater, Loyola Marymount.  

After graduating from college Chris went to law school, became a respected trial lawyer before leaving law altogether and becoming the very young CEO of St. Francis winery in Kenwood, CA, where I found him again.

Last year he gave us a tour of the winery, punctuated by his "Wall of Shame", framed photographs of Chris with every president since Reagan, and an especially surprising one of him with Margaret Thatcher.  Under his guidance the stature of the winery grew considerably, now hosting, too, what Open Table calls "the best restaurant in America."  Chris donated much in the way of good will and money to the community.  He was the chairman of the Board of Trustees at Memorial Hospital in Santa Rosa and held a number of both honorary positions where his name and reputation guaranteed success.

Chris and I were FB friends.  He was a political centrist; I am liberal.  More than once did he delete an ongoing conversation between us because it became too heated, and it was precisely the vitriol that his moderate sensitive mind wouldn't tolerate.  I respected his opinion, and I've saved a conversation.

So what a surprise it was to discover that he had brain cancer...when he discovered the cancer he wrote, "...I have been so very lucky, successful beyond my wildest dreams with richness of family and some really wonderful—just wonderful friendships that continue to sustain me.

The ability to serve others has been my constant passion.  Little did I know that this would bring me such depth of purpose.  And the travel—oh, the travel—I have seen the world and been to the four corners of the earth and back.

Don't cry for me—not just yet.  This has really been a wonderful life—so much richness and joy—everlasting joy—and I have not yet begun to fight..As my wonderful brother says, 'enjoy each day.'  Amen."

So Frank, Marian, Jadyne, and I arrived at St. Rose at 9:30 for the 10:00 funeral mass.  Knowing how loved Chris was, we knew that if we arrived later we wouldn’t have been able to sit.  By 9:45 all the pews were filled, and people began lining up and down the aisles, then doubling up in the back of the church, in the vestibule, and outside.  The two hour mass began shortly after 10:00, and was punctuated at the end by three “remembrances”—one by his best friend, and one each by his sister-in-law, and one by his brother.  They were heartfelt, funny, touching, and kind, just as Chris was.

I asked the people sitting next to me, “How did you know Chris?”  The husband said, “I was his doctor.”  I asked him, “Were you the one who diagnosed his brain tumor?”  He responded, “Yes.”  I asked him how it happened.  He said Chris was giving a tour of the winery and he forgot where the Zinfandel was.  He came into the office and told the doctor of his experience, and the doctor had him take an MRI.  Since there was no doctor in the imaging room Chris was able to sweet talk the technician into showing him the MRI before the doctor saw it. 

Chris saw a very large tumor that had been growing for months.  I don’t know how the doctor responded, but he told me that even if the tumor had been close to microscopic, not as large as the one in Chris’s MRI, the diagnosis would have been that this kind of brain cancer is terminal. 

74 days between forgetting the Zinfandel and passing away.  Again, I’m still reeling.

A funny story.  Chris knew everyone.  He was having dinner in NY when he saw at another table Henry Kissinger, Diane Sawyer, and Margaret Thatcher sitting together.  Chris had the restaurant send over a bottle or two of the finest St. Francis wines from the restaurant’s cellar.  They smiled and nodded.  After dinner Chris went over and gave them his business card.  He invited Margaret Thatcher to visit the winery.  Not only did she do that, but she invited him to visit her in England and gave him an hour’s conversation.

We laughed at these stories and cried when we reflected on the losses that afflict us, that take us by surprise, that remind us that life is short, that we must make each day mean as much to us as we can, and these stories, these thoughts, simply punctuate for me the reasons why we need to tell the people we love that we love them.  We can’t overdo this.

Stillness

Just as I sat down to type this someone sent this to me through Messenger:

I need inner stillness.

I used to awake every morning, open my eyes, and simply be grateful to be alive, to be a part of this universe.  I quickly added gratitude for all the other blessings I have—for good health, for J, for family.  For the last several months I’ve only been successful doing this through a kind of forced discipline.  Sometimes I’m already out walking before I remember to put aside my hatred for Trump and turn my thoughts towards the very real blessings I have. 

There’s a kiosk in Kensington.  On it are “help wanted” ads, advertised classes, notices of upcoming concerts.  A therapist is offering a class in managing stress in the age of Trump.  It’s full.  My cardiologist friend calls it “Trump 10”, a ten pound weight gain because of political stress. 

We cherish those moments that take us away from this.  Oakland had several hundred thousand jubilant people today celebrating the Golden State Warriors NBA victory over Cleveland in the finals.  I enjoyed watching the games, but that’s all.  My friend David managed to get a seat for $1000 for one of the games.  Hamilton was expensive enough, and I suspect that the outcome was a bit more certain.

I cherish much in my life.  I cherish Kennedy’s apparent recovery. I cherish J.  I cherish all my grandchildren and my children.

Having to remind myself to do that, though, when these feelings should simply flow as naturally as a mountain spring, suggests that the heart and the mind are both vulnerable, sabotaged, kidnapped, and otherwise taken prisoner by the very real and pressing issues that surround us, what we’re reminded of in the tweetstorms, the internet, the Washington Post, NY Times, and Facebook.

That I think every day about “how much I hate that motherfucker” doesn’t lead me to stillness.  However, if I think about Jay and about all the wonderful blessings in my life, the path doesn’t seem nearly as steep, the issues not nearly as pressing.

The Draft

I no longer have my Selective Service Card, but unlike many in my generation I didn't burn it.  It was a small, wallet-sized card, something that would fit in next to a Sohio Credit Card, or one for Pogues, containing vital information—my birthday and social security number.  For men between the ages of 18 and 26 it was a card that would admit them to a very exclusive club—the US Army.

Deferments abounded for those between the ages of 18 and 26, but they changed as quickly as the spring weather in Oklahoma.  For those who did not wish to serve in the military, there were conscientious objectors, survivors of military who had died, hardship cases, ministers, veterans, immigrants, dual nationals, and more commonly, college students, people serving in Vista or the Peace Corps, and for a while, young married men. But like the weather, all that was subject to frequent change.

When I turned 18 I was a freshman at Whitman College in Walla Walla, Washington.  My deferment lasted through my sophomore year, or my 19th birthday.  At that time I decided not to return to Whitman, worked during the summer in Cincinnati, then found myself reclassified as 1-A, which meant "draft bait."  I walked up the street, enrolled at UC, and for three years found myself exempted from the draft.  The rules changed again.  Now college students were draft exempt only if they had a certain grade point high enough.  (I don't remember what it was.)  At that time I had an English professor named Claude Allen, who so objected to the war effort that he refused to participate, choosing instead to award each and every one of his students an "A" to bolster their grade point, perhaps to make them out of reach of the long arms of the draft.  (He announced those students that would have received an "A" regardless, and I was so honored).

But the rules changed again.  Now it wasn't GPA anymore, but a three hour test, like the SAT, that male college students were required to take.  I took it.  I remember such questions as, "a machine gun is to a tank as...something else is to something else."  I was supposed to pick the right choice. I passed.

I graduated in 1969, the year I turned 23.  I had applied to teach English in the American Farm School in Thessaloniki, Greece, which might have been a deferment, and the Peace Corps, which clearly was a deferment.  I was accepted to the Peace Corps in 1969 as an English teacher, bound for the islands of Tonga in the South Pacific, and although evading the Viet Nam war wasn't the first thing on my mind, it played a part.

So in October, 1969, we flew to the island of Molokai for three months of Peace Corps training and two years of service.  Another weather change.  Bob Nygard, on of the trainees, was summoned by his draft board the day he arrived in Hawaii.  He flew back to Pittsburg the next day for a physical exam.  Others discovered that even though the Peace Corps was a legal deferment, some draft boards ignored the legality of it all and summoned young men for physicals and service.

Marriage was a deferment, at least until August 26, 1965 when LBJ ended the deferment. Hundreds of couples, planning to marry, lined the streets of Las Vegas for a 30 second ceremony. For some, the honeymoon was short-lived.  As the need for more soldiers increased, the marriage deferments ended.  All those who rushed to Las Vegas to be married discovered afterwards that it didn't matter.  They were eligible.  Ever changing weather.

Meanwhile, I was given another 1A draft notice and a date to appear before the Selective Service Committee.  I had run out of options.  I wasn't willing to be drafted, and I believed that the war was both wrong and immoral.  I was planning to plead as a conscientious objector, but without credentials, such as being a Quaker or having volunteered or worked with a number of well-known anti-war organizations, I knew that my plea would go unheeded.  I prepared myself for jail.

And then came the lottery.

Here's the chart showing all the capsules and the results.

Someone in a college fraternity threw a brick through the TV set when September 14th was picked, the number one selection.  My birthday, July 9th, was #277.  What that meant was this: each month a number of soldiers was needed.  Once all the September 14th eligible males were chosen, the second date was selected.  And so on until enough soldiers were drafted.  The next month the process repeated itself, beginning again with September 14th.  It was unlikely that more than fifty birthdays would have been selected each month, each time beginning with September 14th.  In any case, #277 was safe.  

The lottery was held two more times, for those who were too young to be included in the original lottery but who had just turned 18.   The second year Jadyne and I were walking down the street in San Francisco when I spied the San Francisco Chronicle's headlines:  "July 9 is #1" read the banner.  I thought, of course it is.  That's my birthday.  And it was.  18 year olds born on my birthday were the first to be drafted.

The Encounter

I met Jadyne in a Peace Corps training session in 1969.  We were part of Tonga V, fifty-five     young men and women who had signed up to spend two years of our lives as English teachers on one of the one hundred and seventy islands that comprised the Kingdom of Tonga, a Pacific archipelago somewhere between Hawaii and Australia.  To become familiar with Tongan customs and to learn the language we were sent to Ho'olehua, a remote community several miles inland on the Hawaiian island of Molokai.  Our small propeller driven plane almost crashed upon landing, after which the directors of the camp said, "We thought we might be having to wait for Tonga VI".  

During those three months of training we spent approximately six hours a day learning the Tongan language.  You learn conversational Tongan quickly speaking it six hours a day.  The Polynesian words themselves, chockablock full of vowels, reflected both the Tongan culture and the advent of western civilization. "Vacapuna", for example, means "airplane."  In Tongan "vaca" means "flying", and "puna" means "boat", so when Tongans first saw airplanes they connected what they saw to what they knew.

The remainder of our days was spent tending our gardens, raising chickens, and spending time with both the Tongans who had come to Hawaii to teach us the language and the customs of their native country, and the volunteers who were extending their service by three months to show us the ropes.  

In October of 1969 Nixon was president, and the war in Vietnam was raging.  Even though Peace Corps service was supposed to give us a temporary deferment, Bob Nyland had to be in Pittsburgh for a physical exam the day after we arrived; others left because the training wasn't what they expected, or the prospect of living alone on one of the forty-seven inhabited islands didn't agree with them.  We were told that before we went to sleep we were to put tiny bowls of food at our feet so we could hear the rats before they found us. I loved it all.  That is, all except for cauterizing the chickens' beaks so they couldn't peck each other.  

And I loved the Tongan people, too.  They were handsome, physically fit, and were able to adapt easily to life in Hawaii, which was probably not too different from life in Tonga.  I learned to love rice.  I ate spam.  I went spear-fishing with one of the Tongan men, who caught a fish, broke it in half on the spot, and handed me half.  I ate it.  My first sushi.  No wasabi.

There were two psychologists in the group, the Tongan men and women, and the returned PC volunteers.  When I met with one of the psychologists she referred to me as a "Supervol", meaning that I was adapting well, had learned the language, and was well-liked by the Tongans.  

Everyone but Dennis Barloga.  Dennis was a returned Peace Corps volunteer, and he didn't like me. I didn't know that.  I didn't spend much time talking to Dennis during training (nor the other returned volunteers), choosing instead to spend time with the trainees and the Tongans.  But Dennis was watching me, watching, but not saying anything.  

One of the the jobs of the returned volunteers, the Tongans, and the psychologists, was to weed out the people that they thought wouldn't be a good fit for Tonga.  Each of them had "black ball" privileges, meaning that if any one of them decided that you must leave, then you must leave. By mid-January Dennis had had enough of me.  He said, 'David, you're not going."  It was the first time that Dennis had ever talked to me.  He had never given any kind of warning.  "David, you're leaving."  No appeal.  A plane reservation had already been made for me to fly from Molokai to Honolulu, then back to SF.  I was surprised and devastated.

I turned to my best friend among the trainees, Jadyne.  The night before my plane left we walked the dusty two-lane roads of Molokai.  In the morning she rode with Jack, the head of the program, to the airport, and I said "goodbye" to both of them, boarded the plane, and tried to figure out what I was going to do next.  I knew I would be 1-A, draft bait, and I knew that I would never serve in a military that was fighting an unjust war.  

I returned home, applied for a passport, and thought to leave for Rome, where a friend was teaching English.  Meanwhile, my thoughts turned back to Jadyne, and the support and friendship she gave me that one very unhappy night.  I wished her well and invited her to return to the US and go with me to Rome.  Short story.  She did.  We decided to marry.  We prepared to go to Rome afterwards, but I was so in love with photography that I thought about trying to go to the Rhode Island School of Design, get an advanced degree, and make a living as an art photographer.  That didn't work.  We both got Master's degrees in Ohio where we taught for some years before returning to California.

Fast Forward five years.  One day we strolled down Pier 39 near Fisherman's Wharf and found a touristy photo shop owned by Dennis Barloga.  I didn't realize it in PC training, but Dennis was a photographer, too.  Now he was selling San Francisco scenes from one of the most visited sites in one of the most visited cities in America.  I recognized Dennis.  He didn't see me.  

Years went by.  I was reluctant to tell people that I'd been "kicked out of the Peace Corps", and those who knew invariably responded, "How in the world can you get kicked out of the Peace Corps?"  At some point I stopped being embarrassed.  I was comfortable with myself, my life.  I had enough good points to counter the bad.  I recognized that David Buchholz wasn't defined by this one experience.  I was at peace.  

In 2000 Jason was living in Berkeley near a tony neighborhood called Rockridge  a chi-chi kind of Carmel North.  One of the stores, "Barloga et Fils", sold framed art photographs.  Recognizing the name, Jason walked in and the bearded middle-aged owner said, "Can I help you?"  Jason walked around the store, looking at the images, and returned to the man behind the counter.  "Can I help you?" he repeated.  "You already have," Jason said, walking out.

Father Finn, Bishop Hurley, and My One Very Bad Night

Today for Throwback Thursday I posted a photograph of Father Finn and Sister Francis, a Catholic priest and a nun who were the principals of two Catholic high schools in Santa Rosa.  I taught English at Cardinal Newman for five years and was the Department Chairman for at least two of those years.  The photograph shows them both in clown outfits.  I was also the yearbook advisor, and they were both kind enough to dress up as clowns (face paint and all) for a yearbook theme that I can't even remember. 

They were both very good people, although I only worked for Father Finn.  A number of Ursuline students took classes at Cardinal Newman (and vice-versa), as the two schools shared common grounds.  Sister Francis, as I knew her, was a kind and loving administrator.

When I posted the photo today I wanted to note when Father Finn died.  I remember his funeral (and Bernie Ward's cell phone going off as the casket was wheeled down the aisle at St. Eugene's Cathedral), but I couldn't remember the year.  When I googled "Father Willam Finn Santa Rosa" an article from the San Francisco Chronicle popped up, and I learned more from that article than I had ever known.

I left my teaching position in 1980.  By 1981 the truth that at least two priests in the Diocese had molested Cardinal Newman students became known.  When the molestations were brought to Father Finn's attention he went to see Bishop Hurley.  From the article in the Chronicle:

"The Roman Catholic priest who blew the whistle on two fellow priests in Sonoma County says he has become a sort of ecclesiastical outcast, unable to function as a priest and denied a clergy job in his native Santa Rosa community.  "All I did was the right thing—to defend young people.  And it came back to haunt me.  If that's the price, so be it.  I sleep well at night."

Bishop Hurley promised to investigate but did nothing. A lawsuit accused the church of sheltering the two priests by transferring them to new parishes after learning of their alleged sexual abuse.  And Finn?  He worked as a resort chef in Washington, as a pastor in Juneau, for a home warranty company, then ran a Santa Rosa restaurant.

There may be other reasons, Finn acknowledged, but "I was turned down at least partly due to the fact that I had spoken publicly about the alleged molestations. I am far from a perfected human being. I am not pushing myself as a saint, but I have never harmed anyone."

I'm not bitter. My love for the church and desire to serve remain as constant as ever. I'd like to do whatever I can to help the church address these problems."

He died shortly thereafter.  When the article was written, however, Hurley had retired, and "has not been available for comment."

Ah, Bishop Hurley.  The year was 1978, and on November 18th of that year Jim Jones and over 900 of the residents of Jonestown died in Guyana.  Nine days later Supervisor Dan White assassinated San Francisco Mayor George Moscone and Supervisor Harvey Milk.  All this about a month before Christmas.

 At this time Jadyne had a college friend, a very bright scholarly man named Michael Galligan.  Coincidentally, Michael not only became a Catholic priest, but he joined the Santa Rosa Diocese. We had him over for dinner occasionally and enjoyed his conversation.  Michael was in charge of the Diocesan newsletter, and he was responsible for an issue that would come out after Christmas.  Knowing that I was an amateur photographer and musician he asked two favors:  that I accompany the choir on guitar, and second, that I photograph Bishop Hurley delivering his homily during the Midnight Mass Christmas Eve.

I agreed and picked up the sheet music from the choir and learned the music during choir rehearsals.  It wasn't particularly difficult, but totally apropos for voices and an acoustic guitar.  After the Christmas Eve hymn I returned to the pew where Jadyne, her mother Alyce, and my camera bag full of Nikon cameras and lenses were taking in the solemnity and joy of a Christmas Eve church celebration.

I had loaded my Nikon F2 with Tri-X 400 ASA film before the service and had measured the light carefully so I wouldn't have to fiddle when the Bishop began to speak.  As he did, I stood up, camera at the ready, my 135mm Nikkor F2.8 lens in hand, and as I focussed on Bishop Hurley, he stopped and turned to me and said, "Go on, take your picture."  Standing before 3000 Christmas Eve parishioners, many of whom were my students and their parents, I said, "I'm sorry, Bishop, but I was asked to take your photograph for the newsletter."  Ignoring my apology, he turned to those assembled and said, (and I quote, as I remember so well), "He bothers you far more than he bothers me."  I snapped off two or three images, sat down, and tried to remain calm as the flow of blood left all other parts of my body and began a headlong rush to the top of my scalp. To say I was embarrassed or humiliated would have understated how bad I felt, and this at a Christmas Eve Midnight Mass.  

When the service ended I went back to the choir stall and discovered that someone had gouged the soundboard of my 1966 Martin D-28, and at the time the damage didn't mean much to me. We climbed in our 1974 yellow Volvo 145, fastened our seat belts, and set off for Dutton Avenue. To say that this was the most unhappy Christmas I had ever spent would be an understatement.  I was doing a double favor for Fr. Michael Galligan, accompanying the choir and photographing the Bishop.  My precious guitar was damaged.  I was unspeakably humiliated before my students and their parents in front of over three thousand people.  And I had to develop the film and send him some images.

I waited for an apology from Fr. Michael Galligan, who, I assumed would also request that Bishop Hurley call and apologize to me, too.  It wasn't to happen.  I called Bishop Hurley and demanded as kindly as I could that he apologize to me.  "Oh, he said, I was distracted by the Jonestown deaths ad the killings in San Francisco."  "Distracted?  You embarrassed me before everyone I have come to know in the four years since I moved to Santa Rosa, and you have an excuse?"  As far as Fr. Galligan went we gladly excised him from our lives.

Months later as the Cardinal Newman seniors prepared to march for graduation, as a faculty member I was to march in with other teachers, priests, and brothers.  As fate would have it, we walked in two by two, and my marching partner was Bishop Hurley.  He had no idea who I was, had never seen me before, and we left it at that.  This man who destroyed others' lives, this "man of God" who through his indifference about molestation in the priesthood, was personally responsible for the downfall of a really good person.  Father Finn said, "I am not pushing myself as a saint, but I have never harmed anyone."  He harmed no one, but Bishop Hurley did—Father Finn, innocent students, the parishioners, (me) and so many others.

In the movie Spotlight, the film about the molestations in Boston, the credits at the end of the film list other cities where known molestations occurred.  I wasn't at all surprised to see "The Diocese of Santa Rosa" listed.  I've known priests who were involved in those molestations, and I'm still in touch with a number of the victims, who are now in their mid-fifties.  One student, not a victim, who was aware of the molestations asked me on Facebook, "Mr. B, why didn't you do anything?"  I answered, "I didn't know."

The Budget and Meals on Wheels

Our first stop Thursday around 11:15 is at Victoria's apartment.  We pick up the paper in the driveway, climb the steps, ring the bell and hand her both a hot lunch and a cold bag.  In the cold bag is a milk, a piece of fruit, and something sweet.  Victoria always has the TV on, but she hears the doorbell.  She always thanks us.  Victoria has Stage IV cancer.

Our second stop is a few blocks away.  Moffet also lives in a second floor apartment.  She answers the door promptly and thanks us, too.  She's always in her bathrobe.

Heading north to Mr. Mui's house.  We're hopeful that the Albany Senior Citizens van has brought him back from shopping or a doctor's visit before we arrive with his lunch.  If not, he'll have to go to the Albany Senior Center to pick it up.  Mr.  Mui is Chinese.  He bows, makes a prayerful gesture with his hands and says, "Doh Jeh."

Down the street a couple of blocks is Vera.  Vera takes about an entire season to get from her chair, vertical, into her walker, then make it to the door.  But she does.  "Is this today's meal?" she asks, (which, of course, it is, in that it's today, and we're handing her food).  But we say, "Yes, Vera, this is today's meal."  

The last two stops are on the same street a few blocks away.  The first gentleman is Rico, who no longer answers the door.  His daughter does that for him now.  We used to bring meals for his wife, too, but she died a year ago.  I haven't met the couple who live a few doors down.  They're new to the program.

We drive back to the Albany Senior Center, as we've done every Thursday for the past fifteen years and drop off our "hot bags", then head home.  Often, Jadyne and I finish up by going out to lunch ourselves, usually Thai, Vietnamese, or Mexican.  That's our Thursday.

And that's the program that Mr. Trump wants to cut.  The White House Says Cutting Meals on Wheels is “Compassionate.”  “I think it’s probably one of the most compassionate things we can do,” Mulvaney said, of slashing funding for food assistance for the elderly.” No, Mulvaney says, the "compassionate" thing to do is for tax payers, to "go to them and say, look, we're not going to ask you for your hard-earned money anymore. Single mom of two in Detroit, give us your money. We're not going to do that anymore unless they can guarantee that money will be used in a proper function." That, he says, "is about as compassionate as you can get."

Mr. Mulvaney, let's remember that the "single mom in Detroit" is also paying for Mr. Trump's weekends in Florida, and each weekend costs the same as the entire national program of Meals on Wheels.  

The Other Side

I watched a Facebook discussion take place yesterday between one of my high school friends, a bright and funny man who weighs carefully what he wants to say, and one of his "friends", a mom who believes that #45 is our salvation.  I've copied a number of her comments, as much to try to understand what is largely inexplicable to me as well as to recognize that if we are indeed going to make America Great again, it won't be because the two sides have found that elusive common center.  For the life of me I don't think it's there.

From her:  

"He's already worked harder than our previous one. And he's working harder for the people. Thankful we have a president who is for the people. Thankful we have a president who is a Christian. If we are talking traveling. Obama traveled all the time. Trump went directing to work the day he took office. There is proof in Gods Word that Obama went against. Trump is a Christian. We know a Christian by their fruits! It's ok you don't care for our currency President. Now you know how some of us felt for 8 years. Trump will make America. Great again.

My friend expressed his distrust of Mr. Trump because of his lewd comments and behavior and added, "I say that because of his past behavior, and his own statements, politics aside. I have heard things out of his own mouth, and watched while the whole Marla Maples thing unfolded, that would completely disqualify him from having anything to do with any daughter or granddaughter of mine. Same with the boys, for that matter. They might not be the same kind of victim, but I would not want them in Donald Trumps "locker room."

She replied, "We have to remember that all people have made mistakes. He is a human being. He had given his life to God. And he is doing a great job in office so far. He is what this country needs at this time. If you don't agree he best thing to do is pray for him. His latest speech was fantastic. I don't remember a better speech from any former president."  To which, my friend replied, "I was pretty put-off by the shooting of an elephant and brandishing his severed tail in a photograph."

And last, she concluded, "I was put off by the previous one going against the Word of God. Going against Israel for one. God put Trump in office. I'm thankful america has spoken. He is proving to America that he is for America. And he will turn this country back to God. God says in His Word to never go agaiNst Israel. It is Gods promised land. Obama was no friend to Israel. I will agree to disagree with you on this. God knows what He is doing

"God put Trump in office?" Oh my.

From William Butler Yeats,"The Second Coming," 

    Turning and turning in the widening gyre
    The falcon cannot hear the falconer;
    Things fall apart; the centre cannot hold;
    Mere anarchy is loosed upon the world,
    The blood-dimmed tide is loosed, and everywhere
    The ceremony of innocence is drowned;
    The best lack all conviction, while the worst
    Are full of passionate intensity.

China Twenty-Five Years Ago

In 1992 my American born Chinese wife visited her ancestral home for the first time.  Stepping off the plane, she was greeted by an official who noted that her family had come from Guangzhou, or what we used to call "Canton."  Surprised, Jadyne realized for the first time how the facial features of the Chinese reflected that part of the homeland where they had been born.  

A couple of weeks later we were privileged to meet up with "her family", relatives she'd never met, people whose home showed photographs of her, Teeny, and Greg, but people whose existence was a shadow in her youth.  Jadyne's grandmother, Rose, had married Harry Lee later in life, and Harry had always wanted to go back to China to visit his family, his relatives, his sister, but because his birth certificate was "out of order" he was denied travel.  We were able to make contact with his relatives, though, and we spent one day with them in Guangzhou.

We had hoped to meet them at home, but Harry's sister was in the hospital, having been struck by a bicycle.  Nevertheless, we were able to visit.

The photo doesn't show it, but the floor of the "hospital" room was a filthy linoleum.  There were several beds in the room and no privacy.  Harry's sister is reading a letter that Jadyne brought from her grandfather.

We had been invited to visit Jadyne's cousins, again, people she'd never met.  I don't know their Chinese names, but we met them at Guangzhou's White Swan Hotel, then drove to their apartment, several blocks away.  Both University Professors, he taught architecture, she taught Math.

We had afternoon tea together, and with the help of a translator (talking), were able to share family stories and history.  Recognizing that they were both college educated professionals, I wanted to ask them how they had managed to endure the Chinese Cultural Revolution.  They politely indicated that neither one of them "wanted to talk about it."  They had survived, when so many had not.  

Relics from Mao's Great Leap Forward, from the Red Guard, from the violent Cultural Revolution, still remain in souvenir shops.  Here's one of them, a windup alarm clock: 

Mao's face is flanked by three guided missiles between the 10 and 11.  The second hand is a jet plane trailing a silver jet stream.  To the left of the jet is a disembodied arm from one of the Red Guards.  He's waving one of Mao's Little Red Books, a bible for behavior.  Between the hour and minute hands two Red Guards, each with a red armband, shout revolutionary slogans to the masses.

The Kitchen and bathroom

Yes, this was twenty-five years ago, and times do change.  The modest apartment that Jadyne's cousins lived in, has no doubt been updated.  The professors have retired.  We have lost touch.  China 2017 is no longer China 1992.  There was no free press during the Cultural Revolution, none in 1992.  The press was the enemy, and those who criticized the government did not live to tell about it.  I haven't asked my friend Haoyun about China today, how free he would feel to criticize or point out faults.  We need to tend our own garden.

How This Whole Thing Started

In looking at old photographs I've thought about posting some of them on my blog, adding to them stories, or what effect the photos might have had on my career. This is the first. There are several benches in front of San Francisco's Ghirardelli Square. In the summer lots of people hang out there to enjoy the sunshine, watch the swimmers in the Bay, take in the view of the bridge. In 1969, fresh out of UC, I discovered this colorful character sitting on one of the benches. I sat next to him and fiddled with the manual adjustments on my camera, guessing the light exposure, the shutter speed, and how close he was to me, knowing that I wouldn't have time to focus, or make any other adjustments.  I turned to look at him at the same time that he looked at me. After taking the photo he unleashed a string of profanities. Chastened, I stood up and left. When the slide came back from the lab I looked at it with a critical eye and thought to myself, "I can do this. I really can do this." it was the first inclination I'd ever had that made me think that at some point in my life, I could become a real photographer.

In the summer of 1972 Jadyne and I bought a Eurailpass, flew first to England, then left for Amsterdam, Paris, Madrid, Rome, and Greece before returning to the US.  (I can still remember flying a 747 from Rome to SF for the unheard of price of $99).  Shooting slides along the way I took three that still stand the test of time for me, one in Venice, one in San Sebastian, Spain, and the last, in Paris.  Visiting all the churches and towers we could find, Jadyne and I needed to climb to the top of every dome, every steeple.  At Notre Dame I spied an open window along the stairway with a view that overlooked the rooftops of Paris.  Using my 135mm lens I took this image. I submitted it to only the second photography contest I ever entered.  I won Best in Show and a $50 gift that Jadyne and I splurged on at the Maisonette, a Michelin starred restaurant in Cincinnati.  I was pursuing a Master's Degree that would lead me to a career in teaching in 1972, but I carried my camera with me everywhere I went, and I was always looking.  Some things never change.

When we returned to Paris I wanted to retake the image, but discovered that bars and a screen had been placed across the window.

Ten years later I entered my third and last photography contest.  Once again,  Best in Show.  And with this one came a free trip to Hawaii.  The story gets better, though.  I was now working as a photographer, and in 1982, thirty-five years ago, I photographed the students at Los Ayres, a San Leandro school for budding ballerinas.  In exchange for doing countless photos of little girls under the lights, Miss Judy and I took the most promising dancers to outside locations.  I chose places that were counter to the "prettiness" of ballet—a Western village, a blacksmith shop, and in this case, the nineteenth century Fort Point, which is under the Golden Gate Bridge.  When Miss Judy saw this image, she dismissed it immediately.  "Why?" I asked, as I believed that it was a great shot.  "She's not on point," she said, spoken as a true ballerina.  As a photographer, though, I knew better.

But here's where the story gets better.  Bay Views magazine folded with this issue.  We delayed our gift trip until November and arrived in Honolulu the day before Hurricane Iwa, so the trip was a disaster, too, as we were unable to travel to Kuaui or Maui.  We stayed with Jadyne's mother on Oahu, but we had no power and there was little we could do.  Some gift horses are better looked at in the mouth.

Quiet Desperation

We park one of cars in front of our house, straddling the curb, two wheels on the extension of the sidewalk, the other two in the street.  The other day I found a green 70 Sheets College Ruled 10 1/2 x 8in. 1 Subject Notebook on the windshield.  Puzzled, I left it and went out for a walk.  I returned a couple of hours later.  The notebook was still there.  I opened it up and looked for a name.  Nothing.  Turning the pages, I saw a handwritten script covering the next three pages, the only writing in the notebook.  I began reading...

"Lee and I are unsuited to each other.  We are totally incompatible.  We are just making each other miserable.  We will never be able to be content together.

My life will be so much smaller and more circumscribed because of being married to someone with whom I do not share a spiritual orientation, values, and family.  We will not travel together.

We will be two cranky old lonely people together.

He wants to push me out of my own house and my own bed. There’s no place that is mine anymore.

I made a huge mistake in marrying him.

I will never find a job that pays me enough money and is sustainable for my health and energy.

I missed the boat—I should have gone to grad school 30 years ago and had children then, too. I should never have put him on the deed to my house. 

I will be a 55-year-old divorcee with 2 divorces and no steady job.  No one will want me. 

The only jobs I can get now are low status low paying jobs.  I have wasted my intelligence."

The Maryland Steps

Jadyne and I walk a lot.  Frequently our walks from Berkeley, or Albany, all points lower than our Kensington home, finish on a stairway between Boynton and Vermont Avenues.  We've taken these stairs hundreds of times, often more than once a day.  From the top it's a hop, step, and a little jump to our home on Rugby Avenue.  Jadyne reminded me the other day, "There are seventy steps, here, David, one for each year you've been alive."  I'd never thought of them that way, and now I can't walk up them without thinking of them, that each step represents a year of my life.  Here they are:

At the end of a long uphill walk I don't look forward to these.

Step 16.  I got my driver's license, and my parents, in an incomprehensible decision, allowed me to take Chip Meyers to Coney Island the same day in my Dad's 1961 VW bug.  We eventually sold it to Harry Morrison who didn't realize that it had a fourth gear, so he blew it up on 101 in 3rd gear at 75 mph.

Step 23.  Jadyne and I were married in 1970, when I was twenty-three years old.  She was one step behind me.  The step, like the marriage, is still in pretty good shape.

September 26th, 1974.  Jason is born.  We're now a real family.

I'm thirty in 1976.  I left a To Do list on the refrigerator for Jadyne. I had written.  "Go to hospital.  Have a baby girl."  She did.  In 1976 the technology didn't exist that would determine sex beforehand.  We use up the second naming "J" for Jennifer.  It was a second choice behind "Sarah", but we intended to give her a middle name of "Lee" after Jadyne's grandparents, and we thought that "Sarah Lee" wouldn't have been a fun name to live with.

1979.  Thirty-third step.  John is born.  Coincidentally, I get a vasectomy.  I thought that I would go on a road trip the next day to Sequoia National Park, but instead spent that day, legs akimbo, reading "The World According to Garp."  

Been there.  Done that.

Here's the top, the seventieth step.  The path simply leads to two additional steps, which then take you to Vermont Avenue.  It may be trite, but when I climb to the top of these steps I'm relieved to have made it.  I feel as if I've accomplished something.  Even though there are no more concrete steps I'm hopeful that metaphorical ones remain, and that they remain in as good a shape as the ones in this photograph.

Spectra

I don't want a horse and buggy, and I'm not planning on returning to cameras that shoot film.  But dang, how I loved my Polaroid Spectra, perhaps the last and best iteration of the venerable Polaroid line.  Alas, the Spectra disappeared during a high school party at our house, also the same night that I discovered a half-eaten hot dog in a drawer in our bathroom cabinet and my Minolta IV light meter covered with beer.  Still, if the camera hasn't survived, the images that came from it have, many of which are nearing 40 years old.  Here's one of my favorites, a family photo.

John, the youngest, said, "Typically, I'm most left out."

Jadyne and Jason, flanking my ninety-plus year old mother, whose powerful frame is covered by her Cal Berkeley rugby shirt, before launching into a scrum on Witter field.

And Aspen, our beloved golden retriever, after we brought her home for the first time.

I took the Spectra to New Orleans in 1988 when we photographed Kevin Renfree's wedding.  This night we found ourselves in Houma, Louisiana, listening to a cajun band.

And I have no idea who these two people are, why the guy eating the Vanilla ice cream cone is smiling at me, and whether the person in the salmon colors is a female or a female impersonator, and why they're together.  I just like the photo.

And a "selfie", perhaps one of the first.  I just don't look like this anymore, and that's okay.  

Passion Redux

Marta Becket died Monday.  A ballerina who drew audiences from around the world to an abandoned Mojave Desert stage she adopted after being stranded in the area by a flat tire in 1967, Marta purchased the Amargosa Opera House, began dancing in 1968 and continued every Monday, Friday, and Saturday, whether the house was full or empty—as if thousands were watching.  In 1968 her only patrons were the three Mormon families who lived in the isolated town of Death Valley Junction, twenty-three miles from the nearest town; yet as time went by the 114 seats were filled, and on special occasions extra chairs were brought in.

Ms. Becket wrote songs and dialogue, sewed costumes and painted sets.  She spent six years drawing and painting imaginary fans on the walls, painted the ceiling with a blue sky, dancing cherubs, clouds and doves."It's mystifying," she said, "I feel as if this is what I was intended to do."

She continued flitting across the stage in her iconic performances well into her 80s although health problems slowed her in later years.  In 2012 she turned the theater over to a nonprofit group.

The coroner said Wednesday that the cause of Ms. Becket's death at 92 had not been determined.  She died at home in Death Valley Junction. (Source:  The San Francisco Chronicle)

There is so much to learn by watching others and the way they live their lives.

Manzanar

Why does the Muslim ban so offend me?  Here’s why:

Some years ago Jadyne and I drove down #395, the two-lane road on the eastern side of the Sierra Nevada mountains, stopping at Manzanar, the Japanese internment camp, where thousands of Japanese were incarcerated during WW II.  Inside the visitor center was a locked cabinet with memorabilia about those who were interned there.  Jadyne exclaimed, “David, here’s one of your photographs!”  Inside was a prom photograph of a young Japanese male, his date, attached to a letter.   It read,

“Grandpa,

Although we never met, never talked, never saw each other, it is you that I have to thank for the life I have now.  My happiness, through life, and every morning I hold dear, would not have happened had it not been for you.  It is here in Manzanar that I realize how different your life is from mine, and how truly blessed I am.  Thank you for your sacrifices and for giving me the fine life I now appreciate so much more.  May heaven hold as much good for you as it has already given me.

Evan”

Looking west from the border of the "camp" known as Manzanar

A cabinet full of memorabilia

Filling the Void

Roger Angell, the noted New Yorker writer and baseball lover, called the time between the last pitch of the World Series and the first pitch of the spring as "The Void."  To those of us who love baseball, this is an apt expression, and we try to sublimate our love of the game by reading about trades, changes in the rules, up and coming rookies, and whatever news we can find.

Yesterday Susan Hines Siemer, in going through a drawer full of miscellaneous memorabilia, discovered this 116 year old gem:

I have one of my own, not nearly as old as Susan's. Nevertheless, I wonder if Cooperstown would be interested.

After visiting family in Cincinnati, my brother and I went to Crosley Field and watched Jim Maloney lose a ten inning no-hitter when in the 11th inning, Johnny Lewis of the Mets hit a home run, the lone score in this late afternoon contest.  The next day I climbed on a plane for San Francisco.  In 1965 baseball teams flew around the country in commercial airlines, booking dozens of coach seats for players, managers, and other personnel, mingling with the paying passengers. The cabin was full of men, laughing, talking, many with cocktails and beers in hands.  Puzzled, I remembered the game the night before, turned to my seatmate and asked, "Pardon me, aren't you Warren Spahn?"  "Yes, I am," he answered.  "OMG!" I thought to myself. "I'm sitting next to the greatest left-handed pitcher in the history of the game, a man whose ticket to the Hall of Fame had been punched much earlier in his incredible career."  My first reaction?  I've got to get his autograph.  I looked around for a piece of paper, failed to find one, then settled on the only paper in the cabin, nestled in the pocket of the seat in front of me.

I remembered that the manager of the Mets in 1965 was Casey Stengel, perhaps the most colorful character in the game.  I turned to Warren Spahn, "Is Casey on this flight?"  Spahn answered, "He's in first class."  Undaunted, I excused myself, climbed over the hurler, parted the curtain, knowing that I had only a few seconds to find Mr. Stengel before the flight attendants would be escorting me back to coach.  Turning the bag over, I asked Casey, "Would you please sign this for me?"  

I'm picturing this in a revolving glass container in Cooperstown, testifying to the lengths that baseball fans will go to fill the Void.

The Masses Send a Message January 21st, 2017

Yesterday, Jadyne and I joined Jennifer and two of her friends, climbed on BART at El Cerrito Norte, and headed south to Lake Merritt for the start of the Women's March, a movement echoed in more than six hundred cities around the world.  With crowds numbering from 750,000 (LA) to a half million (Washington DC), marchers in Fairbanks, where the ambient temperature was -16, united in one common purpose—to show the new president and the rest of the world that love does indeed trump hate, that this hateful narcissist's policies, personality, and programs are objectionable and dangerous to all living things.

No one—not Trump, not the organizers, not the police assigned to the marches, not BART—could have ever anticipated the huge numbers of people who showed up to show unity, love, and solidarity.  Our train was filled at the first stop.

From the mouths of babes...

The face on the poster isn't the little girl holding it, but is, in fact, the face of my granddaughter's best friend, Maia.

The crowd was huge, happy, and well-behaved.  Here we are along Lake Merritt.

This photo could have been taken in every city around the world.

And in yet another extraordinary post-script to these hundreds of marches, Trump's press secretary, in speaking to the press, chastised them for misrepresenting the tiny crowds that attended the inauguration and refused to take questions about the huge crowds that attended the women's march.  Trump and his cronies simply are what they've always been—liars, narcissists, thoroughly evil pond scum, (although that characterization tends to demean pond scum).

Mr Trump, don't trifle with women, especially those with a tattoo of a coat hanger on her chest.