First World Problems

Our standard response to minor inconveniences, annoyances, disappointments. Unsaid but implied are problems that really are problems. But I’ll start with those I refer to as “first world.”

The lower front panel, the frunk and the left panel above the wheel will have to be replaced. Two weeks to process a claim, then two weeks in the repair shop. First world problem.

Sixty years of accident-free driving out the window after a moment’s inattention. A pickup truck driving up Arlington stopped unexpectedly for a pedestrian. I didn’t. I was going, perhaps 5 miles an hour. No airbags deployed. Car can be driven. Filed a claim, first ever. Estimate is 7-10k. $500 deductible. Two weeks without a car.

A first world problem.

The accident occurred on Thursday. Earlier that day Jadyne and I had prepared 100 meals for the unhoused, then visited three homeless encampments.

Another first world problem. At Thanksgiving Jadyne and I both came down with Covid. We spent two weeks recuperating. Millions of people have died; many suffered. We had bad colds. I had cataract surgery scheduled for December 7th. Postponed because of Covid. First World Problems.

Went into San Francisco today. My mask dislodged one of my hearing aids, and it’s gone. Just another first world problem.

The Castro Street Encampment

A resident painted the concrete barriers on one side of the encampment. A Christmas tree, then “Follow your Heart”, then “Never Lose Hope.” Optimism and a celebration of Christmas among the unhoused. We both live in the first world, but our problems pale in comparison.

Here in the US the problems of the unhoused transcend the meaning of “first world problems.” as does the blizzard and sub-zero conditions throughout the Midwest and East today. Countless accidents and seventeen deaths. More to come.

The thousands of migrants trying to escape Nicaragua and other South American countries, families who have spent weeks traveling through Mexico, hoping to find asylum in the United States, have arrived at the southern border at El Paso only to find frigid temperatures and no available shelters. This is not a first world problem.

And ten months after Putin invaded Ukraine this is what’s been left.

Not a first world problem.

We are inclined to compare our misfortunes to those of people around us. We’re all on a line somewhere. Some to the right, some to the left. We pause. We have our health, our families, heated homes, love and support from all. First world problems shouldn’t even be addressed as “problems.” We are fortunate in so many ways, and the real problem—and this would be more than a first world problem—would be if we failed to recognize, appreciate, and give thanks for our blessings, even our “problems.”

Hazel's Christmas Concert

The winter solstice. At John Swett Elementary School in Martinez, California, at 10:30 am, sixty-three kindergartners filed into the auditorium and treated the assembled guests to a musical extravaganza. Here’s Hazel:

And here’s who came to see, applaud, record and photograph the kindergartners riding to Grandma’s house in a one-horse open sleigh, pulled by Rudolph and accompanied by Frosty.

Parents and grandparents competed for space to record the memories that they will play twenty years from now at their childrens’ weddings.

Only seven cameras?

Not everyone was in the Christmas spirit.

I never wanted to be a reindeer. I hate Christmas and I REALLY never wanted to be a reindeer.

King of the Wild Frontier

Jadyne found a box of books that dates back to the time I was David Kennedy. As a child I was enamored of the legend surrounding Davy Crockett. I watched Fess Parker and Buddy Ebsen on TV. I collected Davy Crockett cards. I wore an imitation coonskin cap.

I found a Little Golden Book about his life. It’s a bit of legend mixed in with what we learned as “history,” white American “history.”

”Long ago, America was a land of woods and forests. And deep in the greenwoods, high on a mountaintop, a boy was born. His Ma and his Pa called him Davy…Davy Crockett. And it happened in the state of Tennessee. Little Davy was raised in the woods. He learned to know every tree. He learned to know the critters, too. From the little possum to the big bear, Davy knew them all. As Davy grew up he learned how to shoot. He was a real rip-snorter with a rifle.

Once a bear came at Davy from one side. A panther came at him from the other side. Davy fired his rifle at a rock between them. The bullet hit the rock, splitting into two pieces. One piece hit the bear, the other hit the panther. That way, Davy got him two critters with one shot.”

“But when the Indians started a war, Davy stopped his hunting and dancing. With his friend, George Russel, he joined General Andy Jackson’s army.”

“Davy was a brave fighter, and a good fighter. And yet, he did not like war. As soon as he could, Davy helped make peace with the Indians. After that, he and the Indians were friends.”

“This is a fine country,” said Davy. “It’s worth fighting for. Guess we’ll head for the fort called the Alamo, where the Texans are fighting for liberty.

Whatever Davy said, he did. He helped fight a great battle at the Alamo.

And last. “Ever since folks have told stories about Davy. They tell about Davy riding a streak of lightning. And they tell of Davy catching a comet by the tail, before it could crash into the earth. Davy threw the comet back into the sky, where it couldn’t do any harm. Another story folks tell is of the time of the Big Freeze. It was so cold the sun and earth were frozen, and couldn’t move. Davy saw that he would have to do something. He climbed up Daybreak Hill. He thawed out the sun and the earth with hot bear oil. Then he gave the earth’s cogwheel a kick, and got things moving. As the sun rose, Davy walked down the hill, with a piece of sunrise in his pocket.

Born on a mountain top in Tennessee

Greenest state in the Land of the Free,

Raised in the woods so’s he knew every tree,

Kilt him a b’ar when he was only three.

Davy—Davy Crockett,

King of the Wild Frontier!

Run That Body Down

“How long you think that you can run that body down
How many nights you think
That you can do what you been doing
Who, now who you foolin'“ Paul Simon

When Justice Thurgood Marshall was asked why he was retiring from the Supreme Court, he answered, “I'm old. I’m comin’ apart.” His mind was nimble and sharp, but it was housed in a slowly deteriorating assemblage of blood, bones, and protoplasm.

That the body and the mind are separate came to me from a line of poetry in my Creative Writing Class at UC in 1969. An unremembered classmate wrote a poem with this line about her body composed while sitting in a bathtub, “I look down at it from inside my face.” Our body is separate from the we that looks down at it.

It’s a complicated relationship. Sometimes our bodies and our minds are on the same page—the body that carries the climber to the summit of Everest, the striker whose bicycle kick sends the ball into the back of the net, the one legged ten-second stance that reassures us that we still have our sense of balance.

But it’s not always copacetic. We’re not always friends. In worst cases It’s a love-hate relationship. In a recent issue of The Atlantic, Emily Boring, a chaplain in a hospital, wrote this, “the summer before last, I met a woman who lit herself on fire. I’ll call her R. One evening in June, she poured lighter fluid over and into her body—down her mouth and up her rectum—and struck a match. Self-immolation isn’t unheard of on the burn unit. But her case included a remarkable detail: “Pt self-reported the incident.” Translation: R herself called 911 while she burned. When the ambulance arrived, she was still smoldering—hair and jean cuffs smoking, iPhone hot to the touch.”

She wasn’t suicidal. “They told me the chaplain was coming!” she said hoarsely. “Listen: I need you to believe me. I’m not crazy. I didn’t want to kill myself. I just wanted to be closer to God.”

Emily was a Yale divinity student, who at the time was suffering from anorexia nervosa. She writes, “My own illness, anorexia nervosa, had reawakened several months earlier, stirred by the loneliness of COVID and the pressure of graduate school. I’d lived with my eating disorder for eight years—nearly a third of my lifetime—in various states of remission, crisis, and active recovery. That summer, the old thoughts and habits had returned: skipped meals, too-long runs in the predawn. My body was consuming itself, not through the sudden conflagration of matches and lighter fluid but through the steady combustion of glycogen to glucose, the breakdown of fat cells and muscle fibers. I knew this, and yet I couldn’t help myself.” Knowing wasn’t enough. Our bodies and our minds can be at polar opposites, an apparent contradiction, as we both have the same goal in mind—to keep going.

But even when we’re getting along, our bodies and ourselves, there is the inexorable falling away, as either the body or the mind begins its inevitable descent. Alzheimer’s disease takes the mind. For those who don’t have dementia, the body leads the way.

Nine years ago Jadyne noticed that I was walking unevenly. Even Cecile, our next door neighbor, said, “You’re limping.” I saw my GP who recommended exercises that I followed for months. No improvement Finally, I went in for an x-ray.

An X-ray of my hip. No space means new hip. A pair of before and after photos. My current hip is pictured on the right.

This was just a beginning, what my friend and neighbor Chris Anderson called, “a new normal,” a fluid description that was to be applied over and over again.

And it did. A year later I woke up with acute ringing in my ears, the sound of cicadas in midwest summer evenings. One day I didn’t have it, the next day I did. It’s 24-7, only not noticeable when I’m asleep. I kept a journal of my frustrations at dealing with it. After about three months I talked to my sister-in-law about it.

“Janet called Monday afternoon to offer some encouragement.  She has tinnitus in her left ear, and though only in one ear perhaps it’s as strong as mine, and she said she has a mantra that basically goes like this:  “It doesn’t hurt me.  It doesn’t prevent me from carrying on normal activities.  The less attention I give it the less prominent it is.”  That’s what I’m trying to do, too.  She added, “I don’t want it to go away, as if it does, it will probably mean that I’m dead.”  For those of us who are suffering from tinnitus, we have come to recognize that we’ll never enjoy the silence that others do, as tinnitus rears its ugly head every second of every waking minute of every day.” Eight years later I pay little attention to it.

Two new normals in two years. Then an audiology test. My tinnitus symphony gradually replaced the sounds I was able to hear earlier, the higher pitched sounds, like the beep that revealed an open refrigerator door or the reminder that the coffee was done. Hearing aids and a new knee have given me a sense of my old self. I’m grateful for medical science. It’s a third new normal.

Then for the next few years, nothing. A Thanksgiving trip to Monterey. I came home with a cold. I tested myself to be sure that I was OK. Test was negative. Two days ago dinner at Jennifer’s. Came home, early bed. Monday I was exhausted. Jadyne was, too. Early bedtimes for both of us. She slept eleven hours. I woke up this morning feeling better, but we both felt the need to test. We have Covid. The mind is still sharp, the body, close to useless. I thought about the walks, the swims, the treadmill, all that I was able to do last week and thought how strange, how foreign, how alien it all was. I can barely walk up the stairs.

Thurgood Marshall was 84 when he died. He had retired from the Supreme Court two years earlier. I’m not “coming apart” right now, just going through what millions of others have, believing that the vaccines and booster shots, a warm house, a comfortable bed, the World Cup, my guitar, and a copy of Larry McMurtry’s Lonesome Dove can do to make it more comfortable. This too, will pass.

Thanksgiving 2022

I never expected last Thursday morning that my Thanksgiving dinner would consist of a Jumbo Jack with cheese, that Jadyne would have a teriyaki bowl, courtesy of the young men and women who gave up their evening to prepare our food and serve us, all at a bargain price of a few pennies under $13.

It was really good!

Jadyne was so touched by their dedication that she thanked them as we left the dining area. We had waited in line at a nearby Chinese restaurant that was packed. Only Asian restaurants are open on Thanksgiving night, and we weren’t willing to wait.

It was the beginning of a 36 hour getaway to the Monterey peninsula, little more than two hours from our home in Kensington.

Thursday afternoon walking the beach at Asilomar.

But it was the next day that held the surprises. We were advised to watch out for heavy surf and large waves. We weren’t disappointed when we arrived at Point Lobos, one of my favorite places in CA. Before venturing to the south side, we skirted the peninsula itself, no shortage of natural wonders.

Looking south.

Along the trail on the north side of the peninsula.

Looking south towards Big Sur. As we descended we were treated to the unimaginable power and majesty of huge waves breaking onto the rugged rocky shore.

I was able to climb down to the water’s edge before the rangers closed off those areas. “I don’t want to have any water rescues,” said the ranger as she unspooled the police tape across the entrances.

On the eastern side of the peninsula. Bird Island is above the waves. Hundreds of pelicans and cormorants call Bird Island “home.”

Nestled in and among the waves were the lunch eaters. the sleepers, and the pelicans.

Like surfers trying to catch the perfect wave I scanned the ocean, looking for sneaker waves that might break on the rocks in front of me. These are just a few of the hundreds of images I took over the course of an hour or so. I work quickly, mindful that Jadyne’s love for the surf doesn’t match mine, that the perfect wave doesn’t really exist, and that like novelists whose books are published, it was enough.

The Minotaur

“Either take your fight to the minotaur or be devoured by him,” writes David Frum in The Atlantic, the morning after The Former Guy announced that he wants to be The Future Guy in 2024. Republicans have a tough choice—to fight or to yield. Trump has 100 mllion in a war chest and plans to use it in the next two years to regain the seat of power he was unceremoniously ejected from in November 2020. Donald Trump isn’t going away, although for millions of Americans (like me), we wish he would.

The midterm elections were held eight days ago. Pundits, critics, poll takers, journalists collectively decided that a red wave would wash over the country, that Republicans would regain both the House and the Senate in large enough numbers to herald a return to the greatness they’ve promised and failed to deliver for countless elections. So what happened? Those that Trump endorsed in major races all lost. The Democrats not only took the Senate, but after the December 6th runoff between Raphael Warnock and the dumb-as- a- rock Herschel Walker, may have gained a seat. The Republicans will probably take the House, but eight days after the election they are still one seat away. A red wave? No, more like a pink ripple, which, as Steven Colbert noted, “is what you get when you wash a MAGA hat with a Klan robe.”

The political party that loses the White House often wins the mid-terms in huge numbers. Biden’s popularity has been dismal, and Republicans seized on the trifecta of inflation, crime, and the porous border between the US and Mexico as fodder for the anticipated sweeping victories. Didn’t happen. Trump endorsed. and the Republicans supported, election-denying, inexperienced, flawed candidates that the famous “Silent Majority” rejected.

So what’s in the future? Republicans failed to act before when Trump’s countless criminal behaviors were overlooked, ignored, or supported. Will they do that again? The trombone player in the Stanford band who was overrun by the CAL football player in The Big Game forty years ago said, “It was a terrible time to be me.” It’s a terrible time today to be a Republican.

Christmas (2021)

Jadyne and I gifted our three kids their spouses, and their children to an ersatz African safari in the hills around Santa Rosa. It took eleven months for them to find a date that would allow for everyone’s work and custody schedules to coalesce, and Friday, November 11th, Veterans Day, was it.

Andrew, Isla, Kennedy Susanto, Hazel, Hawthorn, Lilly, and in front, Kim, Jennifer, Jason, Jadyne, yours truly, and John.

We rode in an open air four-wheel drive vehicle outfitted with a seat on top that would hold four. On this private tour we had a very knowledgeable driver, and we spent more than two hours on the grounds, having the opportunity to see animals in areas that were fenced only at the perimeter. They have the freedom to cover acres of ground, but they are fed by the staff. Many were born in captivity, but their living situation at Safari West is an improvement over zoos.

So here they are.

Cheetah

Unlike African hyenas, these guys were clean.

Cute? Cuddly? A pet perhaps?

The self-feeding hyenas in Tanzania.

The ostrich was a big hit. We watched this one with the big eye for several minutes. To the delight of the grandchildren, he walked to the front of our truck, lifted his tail feathers, and went about his business. Hawthorn, of course, has a video of the event, and no doubt when he goes to school tomorrow, he’ll share it with all his friends.

Ostriches can run 30 mph for a half hour, so they can escape predators. Their eyes are larger than those of elephants, but their brains, alas, fit into a space, well, just look at the close-up. Not much room to think.

They have two toes, and can run forever. The feathers don’t give them any lift. Ostriches cannot fly.

Impalas are beautiful, graceful, and in Africa, so plentiful that when we went on safari in Tanzania we called them “Ubiquitas”

An African impala.

Greater Kudu

Eland

Antelope, Roan “Antelopes are missionaries…”

“Zebras are reactionaries…”

“Giraffes are insincere…”

Male White Rhinoceros.

Female White Rhinoceros. They think she’s pregnant.

Cape Buffaloes can pick up a 400 pound lion with its horns and toss it away. One of the five most dangerous animals in Africa.

Aoudad. Very shy. Ran away when we arrived. Like mountain goats.

Helmeted Guineafowl

Gazelle, Dama

Gray Crowned Crane

Oryx

Gemsbok

A recently discovered species of unknown juvenile something or others.

The I Message

A Facebook friend wrote this today. “I have been talking about “you” statements, how they are deadly, how I try to avoid them, how it will take me a week of trying to get to an “I” statement before I can talk about something that is upsetting me. I love it. I love “I” statements and what I have learned about myself….So I am reading this NYT article about people fighting by texting. There is an example of an exchange between a married couple via text that is CLASSIC battle of the “you” statements! Each is an emotional slap and an escalation.

The FB friend tried it out with her own friend. She continued, “I ended up mad at him. Mad. At. Him. And leaving the room. To my credit, I never used a “you” statement. Not to my credit, I did get mad instead of embracing that he is a different person than I am.”

On NPR yesterday the host conducted this experiment. Two tones were played to a studio audience. They were asked to raise their hands if the first tone was higher than the second. Half the audience raised their hands. Sounds easy, doesn’t it? The tones they played were called Shepard’s tones. From Wikipedia, “A Shepard tone, named after Roger Shepard, is a sound consisting of a superposition of sine waves separated by octaves.”

These tones were C and F# played in octaves. In other words, if you played six octaves of “C” notes, they would be both higher and lower than F# notes also played in octaves, so some Cs would be higher than some F#s, and some lower. The same is true for all the F#s.

We may hear the same things, but we hear them differently. The FB friend wrote, “…he is a different person than I am.” When we hear the same sounds, do we hear them differently? And if we see the same things, do we see them differently? When you taste sauerkraut do you taste what I taste?

Forty-seven years ago I took a photograph of one of my brothers holding his baby son. On his face was what I perceived as love and affection. When my other brother saw the photograph, he asked, “Why is he so mad?” Maybe we see the same things, but we perceive them differently.

And this becomes abundantly clear when it comes to seeing ourselves. Today my favorite politician, Marjorie Taylor Greene, tweeted this about the failure of Republicans to sweep the midterms.,

One response: “Irony is dead.” Another: “The definition of oxymoron.” That Marjorie can’t see that she is perhaps the least qualified candidate to serve in Congress, that if she believed that“candidate quality” was a factor many, like me, would have her tender her resignation on the spot.

I studied “I Messages” In a college psychology class. Instead of blaming or pointing fingers we were advised to rephrase it to begin, “I feel…” We don’t say, “You ignored my birthday last week,” we turn it around to say, “It makes me feel good when people remember my birthday.” Then let the chips fall where they may.

When Jason was in his early teens he covered his walls with posters of half-naked women. Jadyne was uncomfortable when she walked in. I suggested that she not direct Jason to take them down, but to say something like, “I feel uncomfortable when I walk into your room.” She tried that. He said, “Fine, don’t come in.”

...Whiskers on Kittens

The Levi’s Outlet store is just a little more than halfway between Kensington and Sacramento, convenient for the grandparents who were babysitting the night while the parents were off to see Elton John in Las Vegas. We had time. I hadn’t bought any jeans in a number of years, and sadly to say, I’ve retained the same shape of my body since I last stepped into a fitting room. It was our lucky day! Buy one, get one at half price. I’ve tried to find blue jeans at Target et al, but my size (34-29) is often not stocked. Oh, there are plenty of 34” waists around, but few 29” lengths. I found two pairs, carried them out and waited while the kind cashier rang the bill. “That’ll be $112. 45,” she said, “on your card?”

I blanched. I hadn’t bought blue jeans in perhaps ten or more years, and this was a financial gut punch. Nevertheless, I took them home. You need at least one pair of new jeans. You never know when you’ll have to go to a funeral.

Jadyne washed the jeans. She laid them out on the bed. “Something’s wrong with the dye,” she said. “There are little white stripes on both the front and the back.”

She washed them again, thinking that the stripes would come out. They didn’t. We decided to return them. I didn’t want another new pair, thinking that the store must have bought a whole lot of streaked jeans, and Vacaville is a long drive from Kensington. When I showed them to the sales clerk she said, “That’s whiskering.” “Whiskering?” I asked. “Yes, that’s intentional. All the 505s in that stack have them. Here, let me show you.:” By gum, she was right. When I bought them I only looked at the label (34-29), and never opened them or tried them on, “How long has this been on jeans?” I asked, dumbfounded. “I’ve worked here for seven years,” she said, “and they were doing that when I started.”

The night before we went out to dinner with friends. They wanted to watch a DVD. The sales clerk responded, “DVD? You watch DVDs"!?”

I am a fully-fledged senior citizen. And proud of it, too. I don’t know anything.

Little Things

I have an exhibit of my photographs at the Kensington Library. Under each image I have posted an identification of the image. I discovered that I had neglected to post one, so I returned home, printed it again, then returned to the library. I had to pass by a man who was sitting by the photos. He asked, “Are these yours?” “Yes,” I replied. “They’re incredible,” he said. “Thank you,” I replied, knowing that in the six weeks that the images will be up, his response will most likely be the only feedback I will get before I take them all down. And that comment was enough.

Then this….

I have a friend I wish a “good morning'“ to on Facebook Messenger. One day I forgot, She responded, (and I’m paraphrasing) “Are you okay. You didn’t respond to my “good morning” and you didn’t wish me one, either. I’m a little worried.” That she noticed and that she was “a little worried” was all that I needed.

Some years ago I received this email from a former high school student.

“I have one teacher that really made an impact in my life. It started even before he was my teacher. He and his wife judged a speech contest I was in when I was in 8 th grade. They had no idea how hard that was for me, I hate talking in front of people. Even tho I did terribly they can up to me with encouraging words. Those words helped me run meetings when I was president of my riding club,(one of the largest in California). Also helped me to give a speech in front of a couple hundered people when I was inducted into the Sonoma county equine hall of fame. He taught to be more accepting of gays. I believe he said something like, if you fear homosexual's it shows you question your own sexuality. I have a close friend that that is gay. We were friends many years before he "came out". Mr. Buchholz you are that teacher and I thank you. I wasn't a very good student but you taught me important life lessons that helped more then the English you tried to teach me. I am glad I finally get the chance to thank you!”

Are these really “little things?” Is being reminded that you have a place in the hearts of others “little?”


Forgetting

Part 1

With nothing on the calendar, Jadyne and I set off on BART to visit a woman that Jadyne worked with at the Turnabout Store. J’s friend had gone from “forgetful” to full on dementia, and she and her husband, who, with full possession of his faculties, moved to a senior center near Japantown, a neighborhood in San Francisco.

Three stops away I realized that I had forgotten my phone. Not a big deal. However, if I left it in our little Tesla, then the car wouldn’t lock, meaning that both the phone and the car would be vulnerable to theft. Because the phone functions as a key to the car, anyone could simply open the driver’s door and drive away, stealing both the phone and the car. We left BART at Ashby, crossed to the other side, and took the first train back to El Cerrito. Software on the Tesla folds the mirrors five seconds after the car is parked, so if we could see the car from the station and if we could see that the mirrors were folded, we would know that the phone was at home (no problem), and the car was safely locked.

We could see the car from the second floor of the station, but the mirrors were too small to see. I took my Sony camera out off my pocket, focussed on the car and enlarged the image on the back screen.

Voila! Mirrors are folded. Car is locked. Phone at home. No problem. Starting over.

We crossed to the other side of the tracks and took the next train to San Francisco, having trashed s half hour. But here’s the real story. Having forgotten my phone, I couldn’t take it out to look at Facebook, to read about Marjorie Taylor Greene, to see how the Dow Jones was moving, to photograph the guy with the dreads whose pants hadn’t made it past his thighs on the way north, to see how many steps I’d taken, to do anything other than sit quietly, look out the window, watch other passengers, notice the early morning sunshine play across the industrial buildings in west Oakland, sit quietly, and think about the good fortune that has followed me throughout my life. I had to do that instead.

We left BART at the Civic Center and headed the mile and a half walk on the streets of San Francisco to the Rhoda Goldman Plaza, the seven story senior center where they live. Her husbandf met us at the door, and before we could visit their apartment we had to go through an electronic check-in center, one at a time. The electronic kiosk asked me for my phone number, my reason for visit, whether I’d had been in touch with anyone who had been sick, and four or five other questions before scanning my face with its camera and printing a badge that would enable me to visit Toba and Jack.

We are imprisoned by technology, chained by and to our phones, to our laptops, to our devices. The kiosk at the Goldman Plaza has my image on file. It knows who I am. Having signed in once I probably wouldn’t have to sign in the next time I visit. Perhaps then it will call the elevator and punch the seventh floor. My forgetting is unimportant, and if I do, it will remember.

Same process with fewer questions when we left.

Part 2

Up the elevator to the seventh floor apartment, a very small space with a little table, a bed, a bathroom. We sat around the table, and she said, “I’m happy to meet your husband.” (We had met before; we had seen each other more than once). “What is your name?” “David, “Honey, let’s show them our apartment.” He responded, “We’re in it now.” She turned to me, “What is your name?” As the conversation continued, she frequently repeated what had already been said, as if it were the first time. She asked her husband again to show us their apartment, though we were sitting in it the whole time. I watched him. He answered her questions again and again, showing both love and patience as he responded in his quiet and understanding tone. When Jadyne talked about their shared time at the Turnabout store, she remembered the other volunteers; she remembered the grouchy guy who people respected but didn’t like. She remembered our house and garden. These were far away yesterdays. October 17th and our visit are a yesterday that she has already forgotten.

I’d never spent time with Alzheimer’s patients. My father, near the end of his life, was forgetful, but occasionally could understand and solve intricate problems. His memory was like a piece of Swiss cheese, intact in parts but with holes where stuff was missing.

He finds stimulation during meals with other residents, 75% of them Jewish, few of whom are San Franciscans. Many have come from far away places, moving there to be near their children. “Everyone has a story!" he said. “One woman survived the bombing of London. Another was an RAF officer, a third wounded in the Gulf War.”

They walked us down to the crafts room, showing us paintings that she had done. I was struck by a portrait of a woman. She had recreated details in her clothing, skillfully painted the face and hands. It was certainly better than anything I could do. Her landscapes revealed a similar flair; in one she created a line of trees in full foliage that were both colorful and abstract.

He can take care of her now, but Alzheimers is progressive. She’ll be eighty-one on her next birthday. He is a few years older.

We left the Plaza, stopped for Miso ramen in Japantown, then climbed back on BART for the forty-minute ride home. The mirrors on the Tesla were still folded, the phone on the bed where I had forgotten it hours earlier.


Sebastopol Community Center

…seems like an unlikely venue for one of the two chorales representing the San Francisco Gay Men’s Chorus, but last night they were there. Our friend and ex-neighbor Nick flew to SF for work. We took him to Sebastopol, where Jadyne and I were treated to a wonderful dinner, then VIP tickets to the Gay Men’s Choir performance. The theme of the evening was a takeoff on Broadway, parodies of songs that we’ve all heard in the pop musicals that draw in thousands of people for thousands of performances. We weren’t aware of all the songs, but the quality of the singing, as we’ve heard many times before, was stellar. Each member brought his own costume, and if they weren’t coordinated in costumes the musical and dance coordination was all there.

A small part

Jean Valjean. Les Miserables was well-represented in song.

And of course, many of the songs were brought up to current standards. He didn’t sing the takeoff on “On My Own” from Les Miz, but it was transposed in one song to “On My Phone.”

A favorite image.

Tina Turner, with the whole cast behind her singing an a capella “Proud Mary.” Had the moves, the spins. I wish Tina could have seen her.

Nick’s friend David

The costume, the makeup, the voices. Words fail.

And they did have fun…so did we.

The Gay Men’s Chorus went on the Red State Tour five years ago, performing in Mississippi, Alabama, and Tennessee. We walked across the Edmund Pettus Bridge with them fifty some odd years after Martin Luther King made the same march. It was life-changing for them. And for us, unforgettable.

The director spoke about the issues that these men face daily, the catcalls, the names, and sometimes it’s physical. Many of them recently performed in an Oakland school and talked about their lives, the challenges they face, hoping that just as they did five years ago in the South, open a few minds.

REdwood-1421

That was my phone number when I was growing up. Smitty’s was JEfferson 3592. My uncle Rowland’s was AVon 0229. Soon a “1” was added, so we became Redwood 1-1421. Then the names went. Just 731-1421. Now we need to add the area code as a prefix, even before the number. So now I’m 510, then three digits, then four more. Those were the days when phones were, well, phones.

Do people still talk on their phones? Most of us use them to browse the internet, send text messages, and oh yes, take photographs. Point and shoot cameras have disappeared. All hail the mighty phone, er, camera!

People know they can’t provide health care to the sick or injured. They call on doctors for that. They know they can’t design and build a church. They rely on architects and construction companies. But arm them with a phone, and by grab, they’re bonafide photographers. Professionals hear “that If I had your camera…” Yes? Then what? As a professional photographer I know the answer to that: “Your images would still suck.” Fifty years of experience, classes, and understanding count for something. too And yet we’re reminded, “If I had your camera…”

Well, now you do. The following images were all taken with an iPhone. The phone can take wonderful images. And besides, since we always have it with us, we can capture what Henri Cartier-Besson called “the decisive moment” every day. No excuses.

When the morning sun creates a shadow that surrounds her and lights her hair. When the girl in the stroller looks up and stares at the camera, her face a mystery of all that lies behind it.

It’s everyday stuff. A delivery truck driver on break in his truck. It’s the composition, the colors that work together.

It’s children on Halloween. Cousins, one an engine, the other an engineer. I photograph children at their level, not as an adult looking down. Expressions make it work. It’s a sleeping passenger on BART, occupying five seats making others stand. It’s people being people.

And animals being animals. The cat defines what it is to be a cat. The dog, tired and hot, waits patiently for his guardian in an Apple store. In the second image, the position of the phone tells the story, contrasting the softness of the fur with the hardness of the floor.

Some portraits are stronger in black and white.

Brie was a clerk in a neighborhood grocery store. She kindly obliged in this window light portrait.

I followed the woman across the street, grabbing my phone in the crosswalk. We wanted to buy a suitcase in a luggage store and were surprised by the parrot who lives in the clerk’s hair.

On Friday mornings I take a walk along Wildcat Road that borders Tilden Park. Some sunrises are better than others.

Our grandchildren. I try to avoid smiles. In the first image on this post Hazel is happy, throwing leaves in the October sunshine. In these two there is so much that we can’t understand behind the face. Go to the National Portrait Gallery in Washington DC. No one smiles. It’s the “face in repose".”

Some photographs beg to be taken. I volunteer at the Dorothy Day House, fixing breakfast for the homeless. One of our clients.

Herschel Walker complained “Don’t we have enough trees?” We don’t. We don’t have enough flowers either.

Some phone images are easy. I took the one on top through the windshield as we were driving 75 mph on “The Loneliest Road in America”, Route #50 through Nevada. I loved the contrast of the asphalt with the barren grasses on either side. Once again, the leading line of the highway takes you straight down to the snow covered mountains.

The second image, though an iPhone photograph, wasn’t as easy. The ship traveled down the Straits of Magellan to one of the many glaciers that line the waterway.

We pass by flowers everyday. The photographer’s role is to see them in ways that others don’t. The naked ladies at the top were backlit by the rising sun and show their colors in contrast to the shadows behind them. The flowers at the bottom gain interest through the water and the web.

I’m mostly interested in faces. Matthew is one of the Dorothy Day breakfast clients. He entertains us with the harp. He’s 77 and lives on the streets. I saw the woman on the right in Peet’s coffee shop. I told her that she had one of the most interesting faces I’d ever seen, then asked her if I could take her photograph. She very kindly obliged, and I thanked her.

Stuff happens in front of you. Hot car, San Francisco.

More everyday stuff.

The neighbor’s turkey showing me his molting.

Another sunrise along Wildcat Canyon Road. I love the arching shadows of the trees. The yellow lines lead into the light.

Another image through the windshield. Morocco.

Mother and Child Reunion

Colors for colors sake

Ending this post with one of my favorite Covid masks. Selfie mit Covid.

Fall League

We went to Sacramento yesterday to watch eight year old Kennedy play baseball. The players in the Fall League don’t have practices, but they show up for games. Some have never played before, and it’s a challenge for them . And for their coaches, too. Baseball is complicated, and the skills required to throw accurately, hit a pitched ball, and catch take years to learn. The players walk, steal second, third, and home, all on wild pitches or erratic throws. Occasionally a batter makes contact and puts a ball into play. Rarely.

Yesterday Kennedy pitched, played catcher, and batted twice, walking once and striking out once.

Kennedy understands the game and is developing the skills to play it well. We were disappointed that he didn’t get a hit, but that’s baseball.

Kennedy wasn’t the star of the show, though. We noticed early in the game that Kyle, one of the opponents, was paying no attention to the game. He lay down in right field, he looked at his grandmother, he played with his hat. Kyle took no interest in baseball. I followed him around with my camera. Here’s an eight year old boy, who played right field, shortstop, and left field for an interminable hour and a half.

Priceless.

A Drop in the Bucket

September is the third driest month in California. Because it follows more than 150 consecutive rain-free days it seems even drier than that. Indeed, before these precious few drops fell, we had a week of temperatures well over 100 degrees, more typical than rainfall. Last weekend parts of the Bay Area welcomed a few drops here and there. Unfortunately, here, only a few drops, there, many more. Still, it was comforting , however, brief, from the continuing drought.

Actual rain, dripping off our roof. No, really. This is rain!

And if that doesn’t set you free, Mark Knopfler sings “Seattle”. “You’ve got to love the rain, And we both love the rain.”

The drama that we lacked in the day was made up for that night, A camera on my desktop faces west, changing its view of the Bay Area every minute. The clouds of the parting storm inspired me to drive up the hill to my favorite overlook.

The next day promised more interesting weather, so I drove to the end of Point Reyes, then back to South Beach for the high surf.

Looking east

“I have seen them riding seaward on the waves

Combing the white hair of the waves blown back

When the wind blows the water white and black.

We have lingered in the chambers of the sea

By sea-girls wreathed with seaweed red and brown

Till human voices wake us, and we drown.”

T.S. Eliot…”The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock_

This is Alli. She lives in Bolinas. “These are the best waves in weeks,” she said. They were absent chariy.. She didn’t drown.

Who Was That?

One of the pieces in Roger Angell’s book of essays, This Old Man, focuses on celebrities that he encountered from time to time in New York. Arthur Rubenstein lived across the street from him, so he didn’t count. He saw Nixon at Yankees games. He chatted with Harry Truman while walking down the street. Paul Newman was in a grocery store. His list is a lot longer than mine, but I thought I’d try, too.

My father, an Episcopal clergyman. agreed that his church would sponsor and host my local Cub Scouts pack. At the age of eight I had only one hero—Ted Kluszewski, the muscle-bound first baseman (with bulging biceps so large that he had to cut off the sleeves of t-shirts), of the Cincinnati Reds, (Alas, Davy Crockett was dead). At one meeting Big Klu, Roy McMillan, and Johnny Temple, three of the four starting infielders for the Reds, surprised us by simply showing up at a Cub Scout meeting, answering questions, talking baseball. After the meeting ended my dad asked me into his office. Standing there, all 6’2” 225 lbs, towered Big Klu himself. He reached down to shake my hand, autograph baseballs, and prevent me from collapsing.

Years went by before I encountered celebrities again. In 1963 we moved to Burlingame, CA, which is adjacent to the tony hillside village of Hillsborough, where lived Bing Crosby. I saw him in a local Burlingame grocery store. Annoyed at me for disturbing him, he nevertheless autographed my grocery list. I didn’t keep it.

Back to baseball. In 1965 I went to Crosley Field to watch the Reds play the Mets. Jim Maloney, the Reds pitcher, threw a no-hitter through ten innings, then lost the game in the 11th on a Johnny Lewis home run. (Never mind that we sat behind the Beau Brummels, of “Laugh Laugh” fame). That’s not the story.

The next day I grabbed my window seat at the Greater Cincinnati airport, waiting for the five hour flight back to San Francisco. I was puzzled that the plane was mostly full of men, some standing in the aisle, talking to each other, some leaning over the seats, chatting with the men behind them. A man sat down next to me in the center seat. I looked at him and asked, “Are you Warren Spahn?” He answered, “Yes, I am.” I continued, “Are these the Mets?” “Yes,” he replied. Instinctively, I asked for his autograph. “Sure,” he answered. I had nothing to write on. No paper. I looked through the pocket in the seat in front of me searching for a pad, a slip of paper, something. I found this:

Trans World Airlines Wow! An autograph of the greatest left-handed pitcher in baseball history!

I asked, “Is Casey on this flight?” Mr. Spahn answered, “He’s in first class.” I excused myself, grabbed my motion discomfort bag, charged through the curtains, found Casey Stengel in an aisle seat, turned the bag over, and repeated the request.

I have this on my wall. I turn it over every few months. It’’s lasted a lot longer than Trans World Airlines. I was willing to give it up if Cooperstown wanted it, so I wrote to them. “We loved the story,” they said, “but no thanks.”

After I graduated from UC I drove back to California, meeting my brother and sister-in-law in Texas, then continuing on to New Mexico. We stopped at Santa Fe at a picturesque hotel downtown. My sister-in-law pointed to two men engaged in conversation. “Look”, she said, “There’s Anthony Quinn!” I began heading over to the two men, my trusty graduation present of a Nikon FTN and 50 mm f1.4 lens around my neck. Suddenly I realized just as they took notice of me, that I wasn’t certain which of them was Anthony Quinn. “Mr. Quinn, may I take your photograph?” I asked to the space between them, hoping for redemption. Just then Anthony Quinn said to his friend, “I think he wants to take your picture,” “Oh no,” I responded, silently congratulating myself for escaping total idiocy. He stood in the lobby, arms crossed, as I tried to hold the camera still with Kodachrome 25 in the camera.

1969

Not done with Anthony Quinn yet. Many years later my mother-in-law told us an unbelievable story about her cousin Larry, a retired Bay Area dentist. “When he was a boy he was in the movies,” she said, “Ducky Louie.” We took no notice of this, knowing that we were as likely to hear truths as falsehoods.

By then Google was in full operation, and we googled Ducky Louie. OMG. Here’s Ducky in action in Back to Bataan. (We saw it on Netflix).

But get this. At the end of the movie, Ducky is riding in a troop transport full of Japanese soldiers. They spot John Wayne leading American troops below and plan to ambush them. Ducky grabs the steering wheel and forces the transport to go over a cliff, killing all the Japanese soldiers. Ducky is thrown out of the truck and is rescued by John Wayne, in whose arms he dies. Ducky died in John Wayne’s arms! What an item on a CV! Oh yes, Anthony Quinn was in that one, too. So add, Ducky to my list of famous run-ins.

I had a portrait photography business. At Ursuline High School’s Father-Daughter dance I posed couples before the background, made sure that their hands were proper, that their weight shifted to the back leg, that they were standing at 45 degree angles to the camera (you look thinner), that their eyes were directed into the camera, their heads tilted slightly to the middle, and their wrist corsages centered. A father, his two daughters, and the grandfather came in, so I spent just a little more time with four than I would have with two. Here they are.

The Father-Daughter Dinner Dance.

A teacher standing next to me turned and said, “Did you realize that was Joe Montana?” OMG. Once again, I didn’t. I spent too much time making sure that they were posed properly to notice who they were. But here’s where the story gets better.

These were the film days. Jadyne was taking the orders, and everyone in line got an 8x10, two 5x7s, and 8 wallets. Joe wanted an extra 8x10 for his father. Jadyne explained that we couldn’t add individual photos to orders. The lab was directed to print the same photo package for every negative. She told Joe that he could have a second package for $20. He declined. Knowing who he was and pissed that he was so tight, she asked him for his name. He replied, “Montana.” “Oh,” she answered acidly, “just like the state?”

I photographed the wedding in Sonoma of a record producer. I was struck by the wedding singer, a man who had such a beautiful voice. After the wedding I told the groom how impressed I was with the singer. “Where did you find him?” I asked. “That’s Aaron Neville,” he said. He sang Ave Maria. I had a copy of it on tape. At home. I’m an idiot.

Well, at least I knew the next two celebrities, people I rode in elevators with. Richard Brautigan, the author of Trout Fishing in America was the first. He wrote that he always wanted to end a book with “mayonnaise.” He did. He also ended himself with a .45. The other is still with us. I was on a local school board. I had business in Sacramento. So did the mayor of Carmel, Clint Eastwood. There were women in the elevator with us. I made little progress with them. At least I knew who he was.

And I certainly knew who James Brown was. He was staying at the Hyatt House in Burlingame facing a paternity suit brought by the president of the James Brown Fan Club. Apparently, she took her position seriously. I was a room service waiter at the hotel, and in 1969 the $20 tip he gave me every time I brought him a slice of apple pie was a fortune.

I also knew who Walter Mondale was in 1984. Major democratic donors had been invited to Congressman Doug Bosco’s house on the Russian River for an evening with Walter Mondale. I took photographs of them with the donee, Mr. Mondale. Again, this was in the film days. I hated asking Mondale to wait while I loaded film into my camera so I asked a man leaning against the wall to hold my camera. “I can’t,” he said. “I have to keep my hands free.” Later that evening Mondale came out to the deck where I was enjoying the evening air, and he began talking about his boyhood in Minnesota. I loved my job.

I also knew Tommy Smothers. I had met Richard Arrowood when he was the winemaker at Chateau St. Jean in Kenwood. He founded his own eponymously named winery and made wines for Tom and Dick Smothers, who grew grapes in the area, all bottled as Smothers Brothers Wines. I photographed Richard’s daughter’s wedding, and Tommy Smothers was not only a guest, but the evening’s entertainment, too.

We sat together at dinner and he commiserated with me about an unfortunate experience I had at the ceremony. The minister made it clear that I was not to take any photographs during the wedding, as it would detract from the sanctity of the service. So, I didn’t. Meanwhile, guests kept popping up and down like “Whack-A-Moles”, shooting images throughout. He said, “I was told the same thing when my brother Dick was married.” I asked, “What did you do?” He said, “As the best man, I entered the church in a suit that was covered with flashing lightbulbs, carrying a yo-yo in each hand.”

Then at a Yankees-Dodgers World Series game at Dodger Stadium I sat next to Billy Crystal. “Who’s that?” i asked my friend. “He’s an actor in a TV show called “Soap.” To be fair he hadn’t really made it yet

My neighbor Mike Dunbar was the defensive coordinator for the Cal Bears football team. He gave me free tickets. I drove him home after the post-game feast. I saw this man at more than one game and was puzzled about why he attracted so many young girls.

Adam Duritz, the lead singer of Counting Crows, an alumnus with a large and very open wallet.

It gets better. My teenage life changed when I heard “Walk, Don’t Run” by the Ventures. Paul Simons and I would buy their albums, learn the tunes, and add 12 new songs to our set list. I had the opportunity to see them play in Berkeley, talked my way into their dressing room, was photographed standing in the middle with them. Alas! Photo fail.

It gets worse. My dad stopped in Corbin, Kentucky on our way to Florida in 1955 at a restaurant called Sanders’ Café. I was served by the owner, a colorful figure in a white suit and goatee.

The coup de grace is as follows. My Kensington friend, David Anderson, is a cardiologist who treated another doctor, another cardiologist, until the patient died. His widow, Rita Moreno, was a guest at David’s sixtieth birthday party eleven years ago.

Rita Moreno, 2011. She was 79. She made copies of this or another image and used them at her 80th birthday party.

As we all sang “Happy Birthday” to David, Rita pretended to be Marilyn Monroe with JFK, singing Happy Birthday to David while wrapping herself around his legs. When I saw this I said, “Hey, it’s my birthday, too!"

I had asked the host if my gay neighbors could come, too. Rita is an icon, I’d been told, in the gay community. At the end of the evening Rita found she had no way to get home. Nick and Russ gladly obliged.

And last. As the English Department Chair, I had the honor of taking each of the school’s four classes to San Francisco to the ACT Theater. The staff knew me, appreciated the numbers of people I had brought to the theater. Coming to a play with Jadyne I was asked if we’d like a private audience in the dressing room of the star, Vincent Price. This was before the maniacal laughter he left on Michael Jackson’s “Thriller.” So glad I knew who he was.

P.S. The celebrity I never met. I left teaching in June, 1980. The fall class included Robert O’Brien, Trump’s National Security Advisor. Had I stayed I would have had him in freshman English. I would have suggested that he not to take the job thirty-nine years later.