Taking Stock

After Covid I was down to 153 lbs., a pleasant side effect from the misery and fatigue of being sick. Recovery and the holidays undid the good that Covid did. OK, 156.0 on the scale this morning. 150 is a goal, not a promise, not a resolution, just a carrot hanging in front of this donkey.

What else? My ankle is fully recovered. I broke it on the Ides of April, trying to run to the Tilden Park restroom at the bottom of the hill. Six weeks in a boot, even sleeping with it, then a visit with the doctor who said, ‘I hope I don’t see you again.” I’m good with that. I’ve measured the time my walks require, and I’m a little slower. Age? I am 76. I’m not expecting to get faster, stronger in any athletic pursuits. When I was riding my bike, a peloton passed me on Old Tunnel Road. After I came home I complained to J. She said, “How many people did you pass who were watching TV, reading the paper, or just drinking coffee?” I remember that.

My hearing. I lost a hearing aid in Chinatown a week ago. A new hearing test revealed that my hearing is fairly close to what it was three years ago, but I learned for the first time that my word recognition, which should be 100%, is close to 65%, meaning that I have trouble distinguishing words, especially from the mouths of my grandchildren. I never knew that hearing was split between volume and clarity.

What else? Minor things, like toenail fungus, a much-improved psoriasis, a slowly recovering finger I injured at Mammoth Lakes last August, needed to play chords easily.

My blood pressure, with the support of Lisonopril, is in a decent range. Last reading was 126/70. I’ll be resuming visits to 24 hour Fitness, getting back in the pool and the treadmill. That was a plus in 2022.

Oh yes, the brain, the mind, stuff in that part of me that looks out of my face. For six years I allowed my mind to be assaulted by the presence of Donald J Trump, “the former guy,” a person whose specter cast a shadow in my mind, in my brain, a person whose unwelcome presence was difficult to expunge. He’s not the first. When Jason and Rachel were going through their marital difficulties, and even before then, I let my negative feelings about her take up space in my brain that could have been used more fruitfully. It’s a fault of mine. I’ve let unworthy people occupy too much of my attention. Bob Frassetto, my ex-neighbor, was one of them. He moved away. But before he did I was able to expunge him, Rachel’s gone. Bob is, too. And so is Trump. He’s weak and powerless, a meaningless imposter, someone whose presence over the last six years has spread a pall across the minds of not only me, but many in the country over the last six years. His permanent absence will be met more with a whimper, not a bang.

Closer to home. We have good, meaningful relationships with our kids and grandkids, although we see Isla and Susanto a lot, the other four, occasionally. Since “winter is icumen in,” frequent rain, outside activities with family are less frequent. My brother’s eightieth birthday, a welcome visit from Sean and Greg, being with family is its own reward.

Yesterday we had almost five inches of rain, the biggest storm of the season. We have been concerned about the drought, saving water for the plants, taking shorter showers, being mindful about the environment. The drought bugaboo has been a persistent nag; we might stave off disaster for another year, if the rain continues.

Am I happy? Mostly. Today I was in the yard picking up lawn detritus, thinking about how much fun our kids have been having with their families—a twelve mile hike with the Geens, days of snowboarding at Tahoe for the Weller Way four, and I thought about how much I once enjoyed both of those activities, and at the same time happy not to be doing them today. Or probably tomorrow. I’m living my life as best I can. I find meaning in reading, walking, photography, playing guitar, dinners out, spending time with friends, and volunteering at Dorothy Day Center, preparing breakfasts, driving the trailer to homeless encampments, and simply doing what I’ve been doing for the last fifty-three years—spending time with and appreciating the woman who, in early January of 1970, said “yes.”

Oh yeah, when I’m out I’m always looking. With my phone a photograph is right around the corner. That makes me happy, too.

That New Year's Thing

Traditionally, the media posts the list of famous people who passed in the preceding year. It feels a bit different today, I think, because some of the following were long time passengers on Spaceship Earth with yours truly, people whose performances, speeches, and presence accompanied me on this long flight over seventy-six years. In no particular order they are Pele, Barbara Walters, Pope Benedict, Don Wilson, P.J. O’Rourke, Madeleine Albright, Bobby Rydell, Margaret Keane, Sonny Barger. James Caan, Ivana Trump, Claes Oldenburg, Bill Russell, Gaylord Perry, Bruce Sutter, Vin Scully, Olivia Newton-John, Jerry Lee Lewis, Sidney Poitier, Loretta Lynn, Christine McVie, Barbara Walters, Mikhail Gorbachev, Jean Luc-Godard, and her majesty, Queen Elizabeth II.

I photographed two of them. Sonny Barger, the President of the Hells Angels, is pictured on the right. He’s sitting on a French Provincial sofa at the Colonial Chapel before Rowdy Rick’s funeral.

Alas, I have lost the photo of Don Wilson and the Ventures.

Jadyne and I were dining at Mustards, a Napa Valley restaurant. She turned and saw people who were waiting to be seated. She said, “That man looks just like Sidney Poitier.” I responded, “That’s because he is Sidney Poitier.” I saw Margaret Keane’s paintings of big-eyed children in North Beach art galleries, Madeline Albright’s brooches on display at the DeYoung Museum, was enamored of Jerry Lee Lewis’s music, Claes Oldenburg’s sculptures, and Gaylord Perry’s spitball.

Seeing all these people leave the spaceship takes away a little of the fear that I have when the spaceship comes to my stop.

Greta

2022 can’t come to a end without acknowledging the brilliant tweet of climate activist Greta Thunberg. From Rebecca Solnit, “On 27 December, former kickboxer, professional misogynist and online entrepreneur Andrew Tate, 36, sent a boastfully hostile tweet to climate activist Greta Thunberg, 19, about his sports car collection. “Please provide your email address so I can send a complete list of my car collection and their respective enormous emissions,” he wrote. He was probably hoping to enhance his status by mocking her climate commitment. Instead, she burned the macho guy to a crisp in nine words.

Cars are routinely tokens of virility and status for men, and the image accompanying his tweet of him pumping gas into one of his vehicles, coupled with his claims about their “enormous emissions”, had unsolicited dick pic energy. Thunberg seemed aware of that when she replied: “yes, please do enlighten me. email me at smalldickenergy@getalife.com.”

There’s a direct association between machismo and the refusal to recognize and respond appropriately to the climate catastrophe. It’s a result of versions of masculinity in which selfishness and indifference – individualism taken to its extremes – are defining characteristics, and therefore caring and acting for the collective good is their antithesis.

“Men resist green behavior as unmanly” is the headline for a 2017 story on the phenomenon. Machismo and climate denial, as well as alliance with the fossil fuel industry, is a package deal for the right, from the “rolling coal” trucks whose plumes of dark smoke are meant as a sneer at climate causes to Republicans in the US who have long opposed nearly all climate action (and are major recipients of oil money).

She concludes, “Beyond the entertainment value of what transpired over the past few days is a serious reminder of the intersection between machismo, misogyny, hostility to climate action and climate science, and the dank underworld of rightwing characters like Tate recruiting white boys and young men to their views.”

IMHO this story is part of a transparency trend, when liars, misogynists, crooks, idiots, and thieves have found a freedom to be themselves without fear of retribution. The age of embarrassment and shame is over. All roads lead back to Trump, a man whose catalog of lies is encyclopedic, who was once asked if he ever had asked God for forgiveness and who replied, "I like to be good. I don't like to have to ask for forgiveness. And I am good. I don't do a lot of things that are bad. I try to do nothing that is bad." And so it goes.

The P.S. to this story. Tate sent a video back to Greta with some pizza boxes in the photos. Romanian authorities used those boxes to locate Tate, who was wanted on rape and other sexual charges. The next day he was arrested. His carbon footprint is now 0.

Christmas Greetings 2022

Jadyne and I spent a lovely Christmas, beginning with a little exercise, then a breakfast at the Inn Kensington. In the evening we joined the Geens and Jason for a Christmas dinner on Rosalind, followed with a game of charades, pronounced in the English tradition as “CharODDs.”

The former guy posted his Christmas wishes for everyone, sharing the love, gratitude, and affection he has always had for America and the people that he, the one-time leader of the free world, shepherded through the four tumultuous years when he was the President..

…and a Merry Christmas to you, brilliant, clairvoyant, USA-loving Donald J Trump. (Insert heart emoji here.)

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.