Two Deaths

Lian

Lillian Sing passed at 4:00 yesterday. Lian, as everyone called her. was a beautiful 90+ year old woman, a cousin of Jadyne’s. One of eight children, she was the oldest. Two are left, Jeanette and Larry. Larry was a child movie star, “Ducky Louie” who in Back to Bataan, died in John Wayne’s arms.

Lian at her sister Eve’s bedside, 2017, days before Eve died.

Lian was my favorite. She and her late husband Joe, lived in a magnificent four story home in Point Richmond from which one could see all four bridges. Joe, an architect, designed the house. After Joe died Lillian lived alone for a while, then sold the house and moved in close to her son, Mark, who was paralyzed in a diving accident in his youth. When I worked at the Berkeley Food Pantry Jadyne often stopped by to see her, as her apartment was along the way. She and Joe were consummate hosts and excellent cooks. An evening overlooking the bay at their house and in their company was a family high point. We celebrated Lian’s ninetieth birthday four or five years ago at the Brazil building in Tilden Park. That was the last time I saw her.

Tommy

Tommy Smothers was one half of one of America’s best-loved musical comedians. Google the Smothers Brothers, and look at any of their skits on YouTube. His brother Dick played the straight man. Tommy was the funny one. Their comedy was based on their sibling rivalry, although even known mostly for their comedy, they were both skilled musicians.

Beyond that Tom and Dick Smothers were kicked off CBS, even though the Smothers Brothers Comedy Hour was their top-rated TV show. They were activists, protesting the Vietnam War, advocating for Civil Rights, and either publicly criticizing or advocating support for other controversial subjects, causes that shook up right wing corporate America.

Tommy lived near Santa Rosa. He grew grapes (doesn’t everybody?) and Richard Arrowood, a winemaker, produced wine under the Smothers Brothers own label. I photographed Richard’s daughter’s wedding; Tommy was the entertainment. The minister who performed the ceremony directed me not to take photographs, as it would destroy the sanctity of the occasion. Although I said I wouldn’t be visible, would have a tripod, wouldn’t use a flash, she insisted. Meanwhile, as I fumed, unable to do my job, people popped up and down with cell phone cameras, snapping away.

At the reception Tommy and I were seated by ourselves for dinner. He was aware of what I had just gone through, and he told me this story. “When my brother was to be married the minister warned me not to disrupt the service, too. So as the best man, the lights were turned down as I entered the church. I had a suit that was covered with flashing colored lights, like a Christmas tree, and I had a yo-yo in each hand. (Tommy was a yo-yo master). Having seen him so many times on TV in the sixties and seventies, I could easily imagine. He gave me his phone number. “Call me,” he said, “Let’s play golf.” I didn’t. We didn’t.

In this sketch Dick Smothers is on the set of Johnny Carson’s show. Tommy comes on dressed as Johnny Carson. His ability to ape Carson is hilarious. People of later generations, those who didn’t know Carson, might not relate to it as much, but his comedic genius shines.

Church

My father, Carl Kennedy, was a Presbyterian minister. His church was in Circleville, Ohio (renamed from Roundtown), but I never saw it. He died months after I was born, and my mother moved in with his parents in Cincinnati. She remained a widow for six years, marrying the only man I knew as a father, Gustavus William Buchholz, in 1952. GWB was an Episcopal minister, looking over his flock at All Saints Church in Pleasant Ridge, just down the street from the only house I’d ever known, Elsie and John’s home on the appropriately named street, Grand Vista Avenue.

So, from that moment on I was raised as an Episcopalian. Baptized as a Presbyterian, (my mother’s church), then later confirmed as an Episcopalian. I had no understanding then of the differences between the two. I have no idea now, either. I remember going to the 11:00 service every Sunday morning, then leaving right before the sermon for Sunday school, taught by a volunteer member of the parish. Some years later I became an acolyte, the boy (always a boy), who led the choir into the church, carrying a staff topped with a cross. After the service I led them out.. We gathered together by the organist, who committed suicide at some point, then parted a curtain and walked down one side, crossed to the center, then up the steps to the sanctuary.

The church held memorable moments, like the time my baseball heroes, Ted Kluszewski, Johnny Temple, and Roy McMillan met our cub scout troupe in the auditorium. I remember the ancient Coke machine in the basement which yielded a 6.5 oz bottle for. $.05. I remember standing, kneeling, praying, singing, and listening. I also remember uninvited pornographic thoughts sneaking into my consciousness, often when Dad was preaching.

A black and white photograph shows me, Dad, and Bishop Blanchard smiling at my confirmation. The confirmation rite supposes that candidates "express a mature commitment to Christ, and receive strength from the Holy Spirit through prayer and the laying on of hands by a bishop.” Stop at “mature.” I was perhaps twelve? A mature commitment to Christ? No, just another stop along the Highway of Guilt, reinforced throughout my youth when my father caught me with a Playboy, when he sternly approached a friend and me when were looking at a book with a photograph of a little girl’s vagina.

I attended church regularly, dropped bills in the collection plate, asked for forgiveness and lamented my sins. It never took. I enjoyed the stories, especially the parables. In college I took courses on the New and Old Testament.

The stories, the history were intriguing. I didn’t go to church in college, but I hadn’t given it up completely. When Jadyne and I were married, a Catholic priest joined my father for the nuptials. Jay and I both assumed that we would find a church that met our needs. We attended one, then another, then a third, then skipped the next week, the week after, and then never.

Dad was disappointed that we didn’t take our children to church. They were baptized, but that’s where the train paused, just another stop on the Highway of Guilt. When we visited Mom and Dad in Oxford we all attended church, but when we returned to California, we didn’t.

I felt guilty about this for years. I still do, I suppose. My friend John Holden, a devout Christian, once said, “David, I feel bad that I won’t see you in the afterlife.” He knew exactly where the train was headed, and he expected to get off at a different stop. And how thoughtful he was to wish that I could join him in heaven, not burn in Hell.

I’ve tried to justify my religiosity in different ways. If believing in Christ is the only way to attain everlasting life, what happens to Jews, Muslims, Hindus,? There are about four thousand religions, all of which proclaim the truth. Someone’s got to be mistaken.

Your church life is mostly dependent on where you were born. Not many Christians in Iran. Not many Hindus in Nebraska. I’ve severed my spiritual life from my church life. The former is active; the latter, in remission. On Christmas morning Jadyne and I helped prepare 125 breakfasts at Dorothy Day Center. I wrote about it earlier in my blog…

I felt closer to God while I was packing styrofoam boxes with bacon than I ever did kneeling, with reels of pornographic images running through the theater of my mind. I have pages of sunsets and clearing storms from a favorite lookout in Kensington. I feel closer to God there in my t-shirt and blue jeans than I ever did in my suit and tie. And best of all, the Guilt Train doesn’t run there at all.

So Hard to Believe...

…that so many people who live in what many believe to be the greatest country on earth, endorse, support, and for many, idolize, a man running for President whose Christmas message yesterday was:

And the “Greatest Country on Earth?” I believed that at one time. A country is really just its people, and presumably those people subscribe to common principles that govern behavior, principles that have led many to sacrifice their lives to preserve. That so many people would vote for a man whose entire life flies in the face of those principles clearly reveals that we are not that country anymore, if we ever really were. I believe in the principles. They don’t. I believe in an America that no longer exists, or perhaps never existed. Disheartening.

Christmas 2023

5:21 am. Christmas morning. The tree is still up, but all the boxes have already been opened, the gifts distributed, the “thank yous” tendered, the rockets launched and lost from the mobile rocket launcher, cookies gone accompanying the laughter, noise, and a slice of my honey-baked ham into Maple Bacon’s mouth.

Maple Bacon

Saturday madness.

Two days later, Christmas morning. It’s time for church. Jadyne and I bundle up, head down the Maryland steps and turn south on Arlington in the 5:45 silence and darkness of Christmas morning.

We pass the fountain, down the steps to Henry Street, then Shattuck. The man who sits in front of the Cheeseboard is awake, grateful for the bill I press into his hand. No cars, no pedestrians, a coffee shop opens its doors. We continue down Shattuck, turn right on Central, and begin preparing communion for 125.

It’s Christmas, so each of our parishioners receives a box with fruit, two hard-boiled eggs, three pancakes, a doughnut, salt and pepper, coffee, and two slices of bacon. Oatmeal is an option.

Nico, Hody, and Stella doing the heavy work.

Parishioners on Christmas morning

9:30. The service is over, doors closed, coffee cart wheeled back into the kitchen. Several boxes of food, bowls of oatmeal, coffee and doughnuts are left on a table inside Dorothy Day Center. Jadyne and I abscond with a couple of slices of leftover bacon, head up Center and wait until 9:57 when the #7 bus takes us back up Arlington. There is another parishioner sitting in a doorway. A red blanket covers her face, but she can see over it. I hand her a bill, too. She takes it, says nothing. Church is over. WWJD?

Different Countries

ONE

For years America has been divided into different countries, separated by a myriad of differences between people of different races, heritages, customs, and more recently, by different political choices. There are red states, blue states, and purple states. The red states embrace political conservatism, mostly as spewed out by the current iteration of the Republican Party, whose versions of conservatism vary considerably even among the soldiers who march under that banner. No different for the blue states, either. Progressives are farther to the left than moderates, smugly subscribing to positions without concern for party. While a moderate might choose to send money to its ally Israel, a progressive would demand a ceasefire an apolitical stance. And purple? When you mix red and blue you get purple. Purple states have nearly equal support of both Republicans and Democrats.

In the past such differences have been overshadowed by the commonality that we all share—the American experience, nearly 250 years under one banner, one flag, one set of rules and one set of values. We call such things the Declaration of Independence, the Constitution, and for those 250 years we have subscribed to what was written in them.

Until now. Extreme Republican politician Marjorie Taylor Greene had this to say in September, “We need a national divorce. We need to separate by red states and blue states and shrink the federal government. Everyone I talk to says this. From the sick and disgusting woke culture issues shoved down our throats to the Democrat’s traitorous America Last policies, we are done.” I’m not writing about her lunacy and hopeless stupidity, but she does give voice to a thought shared by other Republicans, that the differences between the red and blue are insurmountable.

The Atlantic had this to say: “But all of the emotions that are attached to a desire for secession—seething resentment, existential fear, an unforgiving spirit, contempt and hatred for those who disagree with you—are stoked by the kind of rhetoric employed by Greene and those who see the world as she does. Such language will further destroy America’s political culture and could easily lead to extensive political violence.”

These people are crazy. I’m seventy-seven now, and although I’ve had political differences with others throughout my life (Vietnam) I’m witnessing something I not only disagree with, but I don’t understand. Republicans believe what they choose to believe, not what is true. And therein lies the heart of the darkness that surrounds us today.

They’re wrong. I’m right. Everyone, as Jeff Tiedrich says, is entitled to my opinion.

TWO

If it were only political differences that separate us I could live with that. But the differences go way beyond Congress. Some believe the 2nd Amendment gives unlimited license to firearms. Others believe that the words “A well-regulated Militia being necessary to the security of a free State”,…are important. I do. Gun lovers don’t. Big difference.

THREE

Today I discovered a third difference, perhaps more cataclysmic than politics or firearms. Typically, parents don’t care for the music that their children like. When Jason first played rap music I didn’t like it. It was without merit or value. Besides, it wasn’t music. Still, we kept our separate ways. I know that kids like rap; adults don’t. The difference between them isn’t unlike any other difference between children and parents.

But today a line was crossed. NPR, a touchstone of sanity and reason, published a list of The 50 Best Albums of 2023. I wandered down the list, looking for a familiar face, a singer, a group, a genre that might awaken me from my constant need to play music from my youth. I came across this:

Let’s just take one isolated lyric, taken from the writer’s quote of Sexyy Red,

“Even if her lyrics come off as out-of-pocket for unprimed ears — who would ever think we'd hear a whole football team scream "My coochie pink, my booty hole brown"? — it never feels out-of-character for the truly unbothered Big Sexyy.”

“My coochie pink, my booty hole brown.”

It isn’t that the music or the image of Sexxy Red jars, or the offensive lyrics stun the listener into disbelief, it’s that NPR believes that this album—I admit, I haven’t listened to it— is one of the best of the year. Marjorie’s lunacy doesn’t hurt, nor does the long simmering disagreements about firearms, nor even the differences found within musical interests. What’s killing me is that even traditional, staid, neutral, apolitical NPR has chosen to wear a black hat.

Mica and Carl

I don’t know either of them. But here’s Carl’s father, Joe.

Joe stirring grits.

I’ve been a volunteer at Dorothy Day since before Covid. And this image was taken before Covid. (B.C.) Joe and I prepared large pots of oatmeal and grits, and with fruit, bread, and coffee, drive them to a church where we served breakfast to the homeless on Monday mornings.

Covid changed everything. We still serve breakfast, although there are no tables, no congregations. Food is served in recyclable containers, through a window. Joe still works on Mondays. Jadyne and I on Thursdays. We don’t see each other very often. Joe substituted for Mary Ann one Thursday late August. I was pleased to see him again. He said, “My son was in a serious motorcycle accident last week. We don’t know if he’ll make it.” The bottom fell out. I couldn’t imagine Joe’s coming in to fix oatmeal, continue his work at UC Berkeley, while his son may be dying from his injuries.

He didn’t. Carl’s recovery is documented daily by his partner, Mica, on Caring Bridge, a website tracking people with life-threatening health issues. Jadyne’s brother Greg was on Caring Bridge. Sean kept track of his progress. Friends could read Sean’s posts, comment, donate. Mica writes daily. I’ve been following Carl’s progress for several months now. Finally, Carl wrote, a first person account of what he’s going through.

I wrote to them. “I would love to meet the two of you.”

Linda and Joel

I was the English Department Chairman at Cardinal Newman HS in 1975. Joel interviewed for a position on the faculty, and it was an easy recommendation. He began his teaching career there, then moved into Santa Rosa’s public school system and retired some years ago. He was/is a friend. His wife Linda is an artist, a painter, sculptor, a person whose hands are magic whether she’s holding a brush, clay, or a pair of scissors. She was also a hairdresser. For the years we lived in Santa Rosa she cut my hair. In exchange I was on call to photograph anything that was crying out to be photographed—her sculptures, paintings, drawings, herself. I’m afraid that I used her more than she used me. I owe her bigtime.

When Teeny died in 1988 she immediately brought us a platter of food. Linda is that kind of person, that kind of friend. I’m writing about the two of them in my blog because three years ago Joel was diagnosed with Alzheimer’s. Linda’s drawings, her paintings are a refuge, an outlet, a temporary escape from the challenges she faces as Joel’s caregiver. She has been posting images on Facebook for a few weeks now, commenting on how she and Joel are doing. Here’s what she’s had to say.

To Paint is To Love Again Henry Miller

“A few years ago my dear husband Joel was diagnosed with Alzheimer’s. It broke my heart. To hold the grief I began painting flowers from my garden.

I started going to the senior center. Early spring I could still leave Joel for a few hours. Once a week. I brought a bouquet of flowers. Sat at the folding table in the open art class. Drew and painted. People would talk and draw, paint or cut things up. One lady painted pears. For years. Really beautiful. I would pull from the room. The color of Kathleen’s shirt slipped in behind the daffodils. The lemons rolled in by the tulip vase.

Joel and I sit in the garden. His mind is like a glass beach filled with broken bits worn smooth by the tide of time. I tell him love stories. How we met. How we traveled and camped and sat out under the Milky Way. One time packing up in Yellowstone we saw this old couple put all their gear in the big old trunk of their car. I thought that would be us.

Sitting at the folding art table I wondered why does a mat have to be plain white. Probably in the eighties it didn’t. So I grab another piece of paper as a pretend mat and color it. Over time the paintings grow. The mat becomes part of the painting. The flowers overtake the mat.

I sit in the coffee shop sipping chai for 3 hours. A day of care. Playing with images, getting caught-up on “the days to remember”. My friend refers to these times for me as bittersweet. I like that. The bitter encased in the sweet. Sometime the other. Yesterday I steal a rose hanging over the sidewalk on my morning walk. I paint it. I call it “A Stolen Moment”. I remember to paint her thorns.

Someone asked me why in my paintings I draw so much. Good question. I really love to draw. With pencil. I collect them. From the hardware store. From the Met. From the back of the junk drawer. I even have a Sponge Bob pencil left from when the grand kids were little. So I have a good think. Does my painting support my drawing? Do my drawings support my painting? I begin to allow my drawings to be more present in the paintings.

I bring in my black and white scarf to paint with the black and white pot. The drawing went well. Fun actually. But the painting keeps shifting away from me. I struggle. I don’t know where it wants to go. I give myself time to catch up. I give myself time to adjust. I call it the “Pot Of Transitions”. Joel asks me what I’m working on. I say a kerfuffle. He says ah kerfuffles have soft edges.

It’s not all beer and skittles. I can’t always feel the love. I try to allow the non feeling. I do allow myself to eat a cookie. I have no ace up my sleeve. No magical moment to share. It was a hard day. I pull out an unfinished salvia, draw and add dabs of color. I can hear rain start gurgling in the gutters.

Cecil Collins says “Creativity is one’s relationship with life”. As a wife, a mother, a hairdresser, a friend, a lover. A lover of trees. A Lover of the bay. A lover of beautiful moments. Drawing, painting, scribbling. Watching, touching and tasting. Smelling. Backing up. Scratching my head. Forgiving, erasing and starting again.

When Joel was diagnosed. I had just retired. Then the pandemic hit. What do I do? How do I care for myself? How do I care for Joel? The pamphlets say join a support group. I try three different groups. It’s not that anything is off about the groups. But more like I’m trying to fit a square peg into a round hole. I try holding one of my corners over the round opening. That’s exhausting. Finally my friend suggest I join an online drawing class. I do. I draw. For months. Everyday. Every lesson plan is like Christmas.

Joel gets a walker. What a great idea. Healthcare pays. Woo woo. Cherry red. A seat. Storage. Two hand brakes. We live on a slow hill. You go up. You come down. Cherry red doesn’t slow on the down. Joel doesn’t know how to use the hand brakes. Joel’s learning period has past. Cursing thoughts rumble past. I start drawing the poinsettia. From out of nowhere come the stars.

Joel has risen three times tonight. Trying to find his bearings. The sweet bit lingers. Even in the daylight. I walk him back to bed. Tonight I left all the starlights on. The air around me feels like honey. The star reflections drifting out our windows. Overlapping. Touching. Moving and shifting as I move and shift with the tide of time.”

“The Age Of Trees”

'“We take the backroads across the valley to pick up our daughter’s dog. Between the cloudbursts, a rainbow. I take my avenue of the Oaks which is really the old road that winds past the Laguna. The Oaks. So so many great ones. I loose count. Next a left by the “Wolf” tree I name for its grand size. It weaves like lace into the sky. A left on to the long straight stretch. All the oaks on one side their centers eviscerated by power poles. But still they hum. Their canopy like a boat.

Dec 22. The long goodby. The truth is I try to see in colors. Spring green weaves with last of the leaves. I try not to look to closely at the leaves. They have a life of their own. Black and white is refreshing. I know where I stand. Good or bad is impossible. I back up and honor the loss. For lunch I slurp noodles with dear friends. Fortified. I take the next step. Love to you all.”

Trapped By Love

I took a nap and Joel took off. The neighbor brought him back. Then the dog licked my donut. It was sitting on the kitchen counter. My donut. One of those special donuts thats worth going out of your way for. I guess the dog thought so too. Then before I could stop him Joel ate the donut. My not so special donut. Then we took a walk and the dog found a bone and ate that. Then later barfed it up on my sofa. I had had enough. I took them both outside and we all stood in the driveway. Me holding us. And the neighbor came by and asked how it was going. And I said. They are both a pain in the butt. And joel said not his butt.

We’re off to see the wizard.

My friend came to town. I met her at the library. I took her to my favorite chai place. Then over for noodles. We walked and I talked and talked. And she listened and listened. Then over noodles she spoke. With the wisdom of a wizard. In her soft quiet way. All the broken parts in me leaned in. And she said “you know Linda, nothing in you needs to be fixed”. All the broken parts sighed.

January 16th. Joel talked straight for 5 hours last night. Like only the disassembled talk. With words and meaning. Urgency. And a frantic desire to be heard. I heard him. I do not know what he said. I can tell you I tried to reassure him as I cooked dinner. Nodding as I moved around him to cut veggies. Lifting his hands away as I painted a leaf on my painting. I helped him in bed for the third time. I couldn’t wait to leave. I started to leave. Then backed up. Bent down. Cupped his face. Whispering sweet dreams

First tie your camel

My friend reminded me of this saying. A few days ago. When at the end of my rope. I said I don’t know what more I can do. First. Tie your camel. Do what you can do. Then. Trust in the love. So today I made scones. Our overworked social worker came by to see how we were doing. I fed her scones. Even sent her home with one in a sandwich baggie. She said no one has ever made her scones. Joel ate the rest.

I’ve been away at the coast. Walking the headlands. Taking pictures of the bluffs. The surf is wild. Hammering into the cliffs. Creating mythical creatures. The Gods must be proud. From where I stand the disconnected headland looks like a cupcake. Frosted with green moss. It makes me laugh. A few steps away a sleeping dragon. Trees grow careful out its topside. In a hollow an eye keeps watch on humanity.

A Gull Tries To Stare Me Down

We come to the coast. A balmy winters day. Dungeness crab sandwiches to eat on the bluffs. The tense parts in me went out to roll in the surf. The artist in me stayed to draw. To draw is to forget. To forget is to let the salt air take away my troubles. But for now. The troubles have something to say. The drawing keeps shifting and changing. Working. Then not working. Draw. Erase. Stand back. Step up. Mindful of the gopher holes I use up my erasers. My painting friend gives me hers. Best gift ever. I leave all the ghost lines. Tell a jumbled story. My story. I don’t know where I’m going. But something does.

Don’t Worry About A Thing

My great grandson has a mullet. He’s almost 3. He’s glad to have it out of his eyes. His momma’s glad to have the soft sweet baby curls still at the nape of his neck. I’m glad to have the laundry done and to have Joel asleep in his hospital bed. And. I’m glad for this tiny watermelon I bought on a whim and the daffodils blooming against the raised beds in the mostly winter garden. And. I’m glad for this morning with Joel waving his arm to the beat of Bob Marley as I danced around the kitchen table.

Last night. Feb 16 2024

We are watching tv. Or I am watching tv. Joel is dreaming himself home. Carried by our prayers. I surrounded him with lanterns of star lights and bouquets of daffodils from the garden. And on the mantle his family in pictures. An altar to his life. It won’t be long now. A few days. A week. He is at ease with the world. His life and the loved ones he leaves behind. How could he not.

Joel has passed. My dear heart. Silent. Into the night. The day. Surrounded by love and all your prayers, thoughts and best wishes. Thumbs ups and heart emojis, every little thing, meant so much. I love the depth of who we are. Thank you

She added, “A dear friend has offered me a show at the library form room. It opens later this month. I’ll try and post some of the painting also.

I hope for those close by you can come. We will.

24 Hours

After serving breakfast (I cooked bacon for 140) at Dorothy Day, Jadyne and I headed south to Pacific Grove on Thanksgiving morning, arriving at noon. We met our friends Tom and Andrea there for the next day and a half, returning to Kensington Saturday. In the twenty-four hours we spent together we played several games of Rummikub (all won by Jadyne), hiked around Point Lobos on Friday, then along the coast at Asilomar Saturday morning. A Thanksgiving dinner of salmon and butternut squash soup (thanks to Tom and Jadyne), then Friday night scallops at Passionfish, our favorite restaurant in Pacific Grove.

Of course I took my usual array of cameras and lenses, but in those two days all the images that follow were taken with my Nikon D850 and my 200-500mm zoom. That was all I needed. After a calm Friday we walked to Monterey Bay Saturday morning and were surprised at the cold wind that created massive waves, the biggest I’ve ever seen.

Asilomar

Peregrine Falcon, a neighbor

Hundreds of pelicans make the Monterey Peninsula home

…as do squirrels

Point Lobos. The western side of Point Lobos is closed to visitors, as the winter rains of last year have damaged or destroyed much of what we saw just a year ago.

The power of the waves was overwhelming.

Across from the Inn at Spanish Bay

Great herons were as common as the pelicans

The occasional turkey vulture

North of Asilomar, Monterey is off camera at two o’clock.

Near Spanish Bay

North of Asilomar

A few more.

Leashed and longing.

Habits, Obsessions, Addictions, Compulsions and Impulsions.

Every Monday, Wednesday, and Saturday I leave my home in the early morning and drive nine minutes to 24 Hour Fitness. I choose locker #54 (if available), slide my combination lock two numbers to the right, dress in gym clothes, then choose the treadmill underneath the TV tuned to CNN or MSNBC, put on the Bose earphones, choose “shuffle" from the songs in my music library, then raise the treadmill to 15, the speed to 3.4, and the time to 30 minutes. Without fail. Except today.

It’s a beautiful clear morning, and Jadyne suggested that we go for a walk. I knew that after I spent thirty minutes on the treadmill, then swum my accustomed mile in the pool, I would be too tired to accompany her, so I left the house, thinking that if I swam only a half mile I wouldn’t be too tired to walk with her later. I did all that this morning, except after seven minutes on the treadmill I hit the STOP button, stepped away from the treadmill, dressed and came home. Why? I recognized that I was a victim of my own compulsion, that I do enough for my health, and that spending time with Jadyne on a hike counted more than seventy laps.

I began to wonder when a habit becomes a compulsion or an obsession. Here’s what I found. According to the infallible internet, “A habit can be defined as an acquired pattern of behavior that occurs regularly. Habits may be involuntary or voluntary and are often difficult to stop.” They can be either healthy or unhealthy. An unhealthy habit might be biting nails, driving too fast, living a sedentary lifestyle. My gym habit is healthy.

Habit vs. Addiction

A habit is a choice. Neurological changes in the brain prevent an addict from making choices. An addict also experiences unpleasant withdrawal symptoms. A person with a habit may experience mild withdrawal symptoms or none at all. A habit becomes an addiction, says the all-knowing internet, “when it interferes with daily life, when it negatively impacts a person’s relationships, school, or work.” I am not addicted to exercise. I like the way I feel after I do it.

Obsessions, Compulsions

An obsession refers to unwanted thoughts, urges, or images that are often out of a person’s control, causing uncomfortable feelings. I have a friend from more than fifty years ago that I found through Facebook. I was smitten with her when she was young; I’m glad to have found her again. Details aren’t important, only the feelings, which years ago became obsessive. I was uneasy but I overlooked those feelings. Dopamine set in. I was selfish. Uncomfortable feelings followed. For most people with obsessions, the discomfort resides in the person with the obsession. Mine surfaced when I had to acknowledge that this obsession was painful to people I loved. The relationship returned to where it started, a friendship.

Those who experience the discomfort from their own obsessions often develop compulsive behaviors in an effort to temporarily relieve their suffering—excessive hand washing, house cleaning, and orderliness. My former daughter-in-law takes medications and goes to therapy to mitigate the damage that her obsessions and compulsive behaviors have generated. There are a multitude of theories about the cause of OCD. Genetics is one. The compulsive behavior that follows only provides short-term relief and doesn’t make the obsession go away.

Obsessions are not a formal diagnosis. Only when they take up a significant part of the day, are unwanted, or negatively affect your personal life and relationships should you suspect that you have OCD. If you meticulously clean your house you don’t have OCD, unless you believe that a totally germ free house prevents you from feeling distressed.

Impulsions

In an article published by a website, Verywell Mind, “Impulsivity should not be confused with a compulsion, in which a person recognizes the behavior is abnormal but cannot stop it. With impulsivity, the person will act out without inherently recognizing that the behavior is abnormal. This instability often causes people to struggle with feelings of inadequacy that manifest with unstable emotions, unstable behaviors, and unstable relationships. In Bipolar Disorder, for example, people may be quick to lash out at anything considered a slight and will often fail to recognize how those emotions are unreasonable or excessive. People who experience impulsivity may make hasty decisions, get into arguments, and engage in risky behaviors.

I’m not impulsive or compulsive in the grand scheme, but I had unwanted thoughts intrude in my mind many years ago, and they caused me distress, even though I knew I would never have put them into motion. I took a class at Kaiser that dealt with much of what I have discussed. We were asked not to think about anything for a minute, but to count the number of thoughts that snuck in. Double figures. We fool ourselves to believe that we have complete control of our thoughts. We don’t. We must control how we respond to those thoughts, what actions we take, and how we can dismiss those that cause us distress.

Stella

I’ll never understand AI, nuclear fusion, quadratic equations, Republicans, how TV images pass through space, how my watch knows that I’m going to 24 Hour Fitness at 5:30 am and how long it will take, and countless other phenomena that surround me everyday. But more mysterious than all that is Stella, our cat.

Stella could spend twenty-four hours a day in our shower, leaving only to eat or use the litter box. We have to shoo her out, then pick up the cat hairs, before we can shower.

She left the shower and spent two days in the plant stand…

11/22/23 Now a rotating cabinet in J’s room.

The shower is simply her home for a certain number of days, perhaps three or four, possibly longer. It’s only her current home. She’s had several more. Among them is the space between the toilet and the wall.

She used this as a bed for a couple of weeks, sleeping on the tile floor in a space just big enough to accommodate her. And who doesn’t like a drink of water in the night?

For a week or so she slept on my photographic printer. I laid a towel on it when I wasn’t using it so cat hairs wouldn’t find their way into the print head. Had I thought that this would have been blog material I would have photographed her there, on our bed, in various windowsills, closets, towels, chairs, on the backs of two sofas, as well as some other places if I’d ever been able to find her.

A no-brainer, sort of. There’s a drop off of about an inch between the inside sill and the outside, but it was a hot night, so…

This is actually a concert she played one afternoon. I’ve spared you by turning it into just a screenshot.

Stella climbs. Cats are agile and silent, as Carl Sandburg noted in his poem about fog. The “little cat feet” take her onto our roof, along the fence and into the oak tree that towers above the roof. This part I understand.

If we’re cold we turn on the heat, wear something warmer. If we’re hungry we eat. If tired, we sleep. If lonely we seek company. These are all predictable and understandable behaviors, common, I think, to both humans and animals. Having such options available, Stella turns down pillows for tile, light for dark, company for solitude, and any place where she might be stimulated by the sounds of birds, the passing of pedestrians, the changing of light, the sounds outside the bathroom, for the dark and silent stupid shower floor. Je ne comprends pas la chatte. Je ne comprends la Stella.

J Rawson Collins

Rawson was born in 1910. I knew him when he was in his late fifties. I took this image of him in his house on Dexter Avenue in Cincinnati.

J Rawson Collins

I lived with my Uncle Rowland on and off during the three years that I attended the University of Cincinnati.. 1967-69. One of Rowland’s friends was J Rawson Collins. (The “J” before Rawson makes his name seem like a title.) Rawson was wealthy. Not just your basic rich people’s kind of wealthy, but rich in that he gave money for new buildings for the University, for creating a place and paying salaries of staff who worked with disabled children at the Olympus Center in Cincinnati.

In 1972 Rawson asked Jadyne and me if we would be willing to go to London with him. He wanted to look at art, buy paintings, and he asked if we would accompany him for dinner every evening and share our experiences from the day. He, or course, paid airfare, all our expenses, the cost of the St. James Hotel (where maids turned down our beds at night, left a chocolate mint on the pillow, and served toast with the crusts cut off), and made sure we’d have a car and driver available at our request.

Rawson, Andy, Marilyn

In addition to simply having money, Rawson was kind, generous, and giving. I gardened for him in the summer, went to dinner with him and Rowland many times, and simply spent hours with a someone who was interested in what I thought. He was a listener.

In 1996 I returned to Cincinnati and made plans to see him. At that time Rawson was 86 and living in private quarters at a senior home. One day earlier I went to Riverfront Stadium for Opening Day for the Cincinnati Reds, when in the first inning, the home plate umpire, John McSherry, collapsed and died on the field. The game was postponed one day, the day I was to see Rawson. I went to the game with my brother Jack, missed seeing Rawson, and learned of his passing later that year. I have regretted that decision.

And as a footnote, unrelated to Rawson. Before the game resumed the next day a minister asked all in attendance to pray to Jesus for the soul of John McSherry. I thought about the fans in attendance, the ones who prayed to Allah, the ones who would have respected the umpire’s passing with a moment of silence, the huge Jewish population in Cincinnati, and I felt then what I have felt many times in the fifty years since I piled up the U-Haul in Oxford, a stranger in a strange land, removed in spirit and thought from all that I remember about Ohio.

First World Problems

I couldn’t find my wallet. Jadyne and I turned the house upside down looking for it. Everyplace we looked once we looked again. I went through all my fleeces hanging in the closet, looked in the car, under the bed, in the nightstand, around the house. I drove back to 24 Hour Fitness, thinking that if I left it there in the morning someone might have found it and turned it in. No luck. I looked again today/ No luck.

We checked our accounts and discovered that no unauthorized purchases were made. Grateful, we put a lock on the three credit cards that I carry. I called the banks today. New cards are coming. We’ll have to check in with the twenty or so accounts that pilfer money from us automatically every month or two and update our accounts.

I have a photo of my library card on my phone. That’s enough. I’ll call Kaiser tomorrow. They’ll send me one. I’ll drive to the one BART station that issues senior cards. Replacement cards are $5. I’ll stop in at the DMV and get a new license. We’ll write a check to the dentist on Tuesday, as we have no working credit cards now. I’ll drive to Tesla and arrange a new card, the backup to my phone for the car. I had two ten dollar bills in my wallet, no change. I don’t keep photos. I’ll get a new debit card from Mechanics Bank. No one used that one, either.

It’s a pain in the ass, a nuisance, an annoyance, like a leak in the roof, a flat tire, the little comeuppances that change the trajectory of the day. Nothing we can’t afford, nothing with long-term effects. A First World Problem.

Being in a kibbutz when Hamas gunmen storm in, firing AR-15s indiscriminately, going to a music festival as armed paragliders massacre hundreds, lying in a hospital bed in Gaza without water or electricity, discovering that your family is missing, taken hostage by Palestinian gunmen…these are not first world problems, but these are real, happening to thousands of people who would gladly trade them for a lost wallet, all but the 230 who were massacred at the music festival, the 1400 Israelis who were killed on October 7th, or the 9000 dead Palestinians, many of whom were children.

Third World Problems abound in the First World, too. This morning I took my pressure washer to the Dorothy Day Center. Where our homeless clients line up for breakfast was filthy, stained by spilled coffee, urine and years of dirt. I spent two hours blasting away at the entrance.

I should have added a “before photo.” I don’t think anyone will even notice.

Our guests live in the first world, but sleeping on a city sidewalk, having no money, being confused, disturbed, and alone, are not first world problems. Give me a lost wallet. Not a problem at all.

The next day. I found it.

Remembering Work

Lately I've been posting my earliest digital images on Facebook. This one precedes those. I used to work. I frequently photographed high school proms and other events. This shows how I did it. First, I suspended an airbrushed muslin background from two stands and a wooden dowel in between them. Second, three strobe lights were set up: the first, on a boom with a little softbox, illuminated the hair of the subjects, the light also creating distance between them and the background. The other two strobes were placed closer to the camera. The strobes send the light backwards into two large photographic umbrellas made of two fabrics. The outside is black which prevents the light from escaping. The inside fabric, the one that receives the light, is white. The light strikes the inside fabric and then is reflected back towards the subjects. The closer the light is to the subjects and the softer the white fabric is the softer the overall effect of the lighting. The one to the right was metered at f5.6 ASA 160; the one to the left was at a 90 degree at a 45 degree angle to the camera. then raised to slightly above head level, metered at f 8. Attached to the Mamiya RB 67 was a manual wind 100' film back. Each roll of film cost a little more than $100. After each of the 400+ exposures the film was wound manually through the back. The camera has a waist level finder, meaning that I climbed the ladder and leaned over the back to take two to three hundred images. Alan Bartl, my assistant, is taping down the background. The background itself was airbrushed by an artist, Eric Sedletzky, who created it from his imagination.

I have six copies of this background, which is 16' long and 8' wide. My son still rents this and others through our website, Dozens of Muslins. The text for this background and an actual image from the catalog follows.

"Terrazzo: "a mosaic floor of paving composed of chips of broken stone, usually marble, and cement, polished when in place." Random House Dictionary.

Uh-oh. I shouldn't have looked up the definition before I named this background. This floor is certainly not composed of broken stone, but the effect of the striated cream and aquamarine diamonds is stunning, nevertheless.

Another classic Prom background, illustrating a most successful three-dimensional effect. The brown stones in the patio, which appear to trail off into the distance, don't. And the fountain doesn't flow, and the stars don't shine. But try to tell that to your clients, who won't believe their eyes."

For those who are familiar with "trompe l'oeil" in art, meaning trick of the eye, the background in photo #1 differs significantly from the background as it's viewed through the camera. In #2 the increased appearance of depth comes from Eric's skill and understanding.

Terrazzo

We're Out of Things to Say

Stephen King writes the inescapable conclusion to Wednesday’s shooting in Lewiston, Maine.

“There is no solution to the gun problem, and little more to write, because Americans are addicted to firearms.”

The Onion’s headline read once again:

‘No Way To Prevent This,’ Says Only Nation Where This Regularly Happens

Published Thursday 9:02AM

LEWISTON, ME—In the hours following a violent rampage in Maine in which a lone attacker killed at least 18 individuals and injured numerous others, citizens living in the only country where this kind of mass killing routinely occurs reportedly concluded Wednesday that there was no way to prevent the massacre from taking place. “This was a terrible tragedy, but sometimes these things just happen and there’s nothing anyone can do to stop them,” said Idaho resident Peter Carter, echoing sentiments expressed by tens of millions of individuals who reside in a nation where over half of the world’s deadliest mass shootings have occurred in the past 50 years and whose citizens are 20 times more likely to die of gun violence than those of other developed nations. “It’s a shame, but what can we do? There really wasn’t anything that was going to keep this individual from snapping and killing a lot of people if that’s what they really wanted.” At press time, residents of the only economically advanced nation in the world where roughly two mass shootings have occurred every month for the past eight years were referring to themselves and their situation as “helpless.”

The Onion has run this story multiple times, changing only the locations and the number of victims. This shooting claimed the life of a fourteen year old boy, a seventy-six year old man, and sixteen others. Thirteen were hospitalized. And he committed suicide. All that’s left is grief….and yes, those pesky but effective thoughts and prayers. Let’s all play.

If you press the button “Ban Assault Weapons” you are rejected and told to “pray harder.”

Jim Jordan (I couldn't ignore this)

Two weeks ago the Republican congress excised cowardly Kevin McCarthy from the position of Speaker of the House. The two immensely unqualified candidates, Steve Scalise and Jim Jordan, failed to impress their colleagues. Jordan, having failed twice to achieve the 217 fellow Republican votes to give him the gavel, is going at it again tomorrow for a third time. Failure is a given. Meanwhile the House is powerless in the midst of two wars—Russia vs. Ukraine and Hamas vs. Israel. And the House is crippled.

But who is Jim Jordan? He’s a congressman from Ohio who in sixteen years has never sponsored legislation. He was an assistant wrestling coach at OSU who was apprised of sexual misconduct by the team doctor and did nothing. He has always defended Donald Trump and has relentlessly attacked Democrats.

But David French, an opinion columnist for the NY Times, captures much more about him and the Republican party when he writes,

The Republican base admires Jordan because it thinks he is tough. It perceives him as a man of courage and strength. He is not. Instead, he is a symbol of the way in which Trumpist Republicans have corrupted the concept of courage itself.

To understand what courage is supposed to be, I turn to a definition from C.S. Lewis: “Courage is not simply one of the virtues but the form of every virtue at the testing point, which means, at the point of highest reality.” It’s a beautiful formulation, one that encompasses both the moral and physical realms and declares that courage is inseparable from virtue.

Lewis’s definition presents us with the sobering realization that we don’t truly know if we possess a virtue unless and until it is tested. We can believe we’re honest, but we won’t know we’re truly honest unless we have the courage to tell the truth when the truth will cost us something we value. We can believe we’re brave, but we don’t know if we are until we show it when we face a genuine physical risk.

When I meet a virtuous person, I also know that I’m meeting a person of real courage. A lifetime of virtue is impossible absent courage. Conversely, when I see a person consumed with vice, I also know that I’m likely in the presence of a coward, a person whose commitments to virtue could not survive the tests of life.

Now contrast the Lewis vision of courage with the courage or toughness lionized on the MAGA right. From the beginning of the Trump era, the entire concept of courage was divorced from virtue and completely fused with two terrible vices: groveling subservience and overt aggression.

The subservience, of course, is to the demands of Donald Trump, the right-wing media or the angry Republican base. The command is clear: Do what we say. Hate who we hate. But how can anyone think that such obedience equals courage? Because in this upside-down world, aggression is equated with toughness and bullying is exalted as bravery.

Few politicians personify this distortion of courage into cowardice better than Jim Jordan, and it is a sign of the decline of the Republican Party that he was even considered for the speaker’s chair, much less a few votes away from becoming the most powerful Republican elected official in the nation, second in line to the presidency.

Is there anything that qualifies him for the position other than his subservience and aggression? His legislative record is extraordinarily thin. As Aaron Blake meticulously documented in The Washington Post, during Jordan’s 16 years in Congress, he hasn’t passed a single bill of his own. According to the Center for Effective Lawmaking, he’s consistently one of the least-effective members in the entire Republican Party.

What is Jim Jordan good at, exactly? He’s a Donald Trump apologist, a performative pugilist and a Fox News fixture. The liberal watchdog group Media Matters for America collected data showing that as of this month, Jordan had been on Fox 565 times since August 2017, including 268 appearances in weekday prime time. In a party that now prizes performance over policy, each of these Fox appearances builds his résumé far more than legislation ever could.

But for sheer subservient aggression, nothing matches his enthusiastic participation in Trump’s effort to steal the 2020 election. The final report of the House Select Committee to Investigate the January 6th Attack on the United States Capitol calls him a “significant player” in Trump’s scheme.

As the committee records, “On Jan. 2, 2021, Representative Jordan led a conference call in which he, President Trump, and other Members of Congress discussed strategies for delaying the January 6th joint session.” On Jan. 5, “Jordan texted Mark Meadows, passing along advice that Vice President Pence should ‘call out all the electoral votes that he believes are unconstitutional as no electoral votes at all.’” He spoke to Trump at least twice on Jan. 6 itself and voted against certifying the election results, even after the Trump mob stormed the Capitol. In 2022, he defied a Select Committee subpoena.

Never forget that this reckless aggression was all in service of some of the most absurd conspiracy theories and legal arguments in modern American political history. Every Republican who voted against certifying the presidential election was the very definition of a coward. When the virtue of integrity reached its testing point, they collapsed. But, bizarrely enough, they often collapsed with a swagger, casting themselves as tough even as they capitulated to the demands of a corrupt president and a frenzied mob.

That MAGA aggression has spilled over to the speaker fight itself. As The Times reported on Saturday, “lawmakers and activists” close to Jordan “have taken to social media and the airwaves to blast the Republicans they believe are blocking his path to victory and encourage voters to browbeat them into supporting Mr. Jordan.”

He concludes,

The battle over the next speaker is yet another proxy fight for the soul of the American right, and the fact that a man like Jim Jordan has come so close to such extraordinary power is proof that the rot runs deep. Only a very small minority of elected Republicans have passed the test. Signs of courage remain, but as long as men like Jim Jordan and Donald Trump run the G.O.P., the bullies still reign.

One day later. Dana Milbank, Washington Post writer, wrote, “Rep. Debbie Lesko, a Republican from Arizona, issued a statement on Tuesday evening announcing that she would not run for reelection. ‘Right now,’ she wrote, ‘Washington, D.C. is broken.’ He adds, “No, Congresswoman. Washington isn’t broken. The House of Representatives is broken — because you and your Republican colleagues broke it.”

It goes on and on. The only difference between the Republican Party and the Japanese Kamikaze pilots in World War II is this: Kamikaze pilots committed suicide by attacking the enemy. Republicans fly their planes into themselves.

P.S. After failing for a third time, Jordan waited while a “secret ballot”expunged him from the speaker designee status that he had enjoyed over the past weeks. It’s Sunday, and the battle will be reignited tomorrow with ten potential Republicans now in the mix.

We came so close to having a traitor third in line to be President. Wasn’t the traitor who mismanaged the presidency for four years enough?

Feeling Stronger Every Day" Chicago.

Not.

Rosanne Leipzig is an expert on aging. Her book, “Honest Aging: An Insider’s Guide to the Second Half of Life,” examines what to expect in the latter half of life. I’m there. She says, “I think it’s time we say, ‘This is it; this is who we are,’ and admit how lucky we are to have all these years of extra time.”

I do.

Typically, predictable changes associated with aging “start to happen much more between the ages of 75 and 85,” she says.

Here are the highlights:

Older people often present with different symptoms than younger people when they become ill. (N/A)

Older people often react differently than younger people to medications. (N/A)

Older people have reduced energy reserves. Does napping count? Does yawning late morning or at 2:00 count? She suggests that the senses of taste and smell diminish. Not for me. Loss of appetite becomes common. I wish. The risk of dehydration increases. Gotta get me some water. Now.

The musculoskeletal system is less flexible. Balance is compromised. True that. The range of motion in joints contracts. Falls and fractures are more common. See broken ankle, April 2022.

Because of accumulated damage to hair cells in the inner ear, it’s harder to hear, especially at high frequencies. It’s also harder to understand speech that’s rapid and loaded with information or that occurs in noisy environments. Move this to the top of the list. In my hearing test I could only recognize spoken words correctly 66% of the time. That makes understanding Isla an impossibility.

Sleep becomes fragmented. It takes longer for older people to fall asleep, and they sleep more lightly, awakening more in the night. The nights I don’t awaken are few and far between.

It wasn’t that many years ago when Jadyne said to me, “You’re limping.” When my neighbor Cecile mentioned it I knew it was time to take a look. I tried exercises, a foam column, stretches, and after six months, an x-ray. “You’re a candidate for a hip replacement,” was the verdict. Done. I discovered that my deviated septum caused me constant stuffiness in my nose. A septoplasty followed. Done. I developed tinnitus overnight in both ears. No cure. My friend Chris had used the term “new normal” in describing the continuing series of physical downturns that had nested in me. What was implied was that the “new normal” was fluid, progressive, inconstant, and headed in only one direction.

Leipzig acknowledges the downturns. She concludes, “There is almost always something that can be done to improve your situation as you grow older, if you’re willing to do it.”

I am.

Two days a week I take at least a five mile walk through the East Bay Hills. One day Jadyne and I walk to Dorothy Day to feed the homeless. Three miles down, four hours on our feet, a bus ride home. I work in the yard, cut the grass, mulch, rake, and stay active outdoors. I go to Twenty-Four Hour Fitness three days a week, spend a half hour on a treadmill, then swim a mile. I read every day. I just finished 1400 pages of Tolstoy’s War and Peace. I do Wordle every day, Connections, too. I write in my Blog. When not taking photographs I’m adding to my knowledge by printing them, studying software. I am, as she recommends, improving my situation.

Leonard Downie, the former editor of the Washington Post keeps a journal chronicling his 80th year. He notes that Paul McCartney, Barbra Streisand, Brian Wilson, Lesley Stahl, Joe Biden, and Mitch McConnell are all 80. Nancy Pelosi is older. He said, “When you reach eighty, you’re playing with house money.”

In his journal he recounts numerous falls, a loss of balance, his naivete at falling for a computer scam, ugly swollen spots on his skin, occasional leg cramps, stiffness, forgetfulness, moody days thinking of mortality.

He concludes, “I’m defiantly not ready to retire or to fear the future.”

Retiring doesn’t mean stop doing the things you love. And fearing the future? No. I’m not eighty yet, but I am enjoying play with the house money.

Hamas

Early Saturday morning. I’m on the treadmill at 24 hour Fitness in El Cerrito. I aways hope to find one in front of the large screen TVS that’s tuned to CNN or MSNBC. I did. By 6 am I had learned that Hamas had launched a multi-pronged attack against Israel, killing hundreds with missiles, hand grenades, and machine guns. Kibbutzes were raided, residents kidnapped.

In a field where hundreds of young people were celebrating a music festival, paragliders armed with machine guns mowed them down. 260 bodies were discovered.

Running for their lives.

A kidnapped member of a kibbutz being taken to Gaza.

Images of dead bodies, entreaties from fathers whose families are missing, gnashing and wailing, all part of the madness of war.

Benjamin Netanyahu, the prime minister of Israel, told President Biden on Sunday that Israel does not have any choice but to unleash a ground operation in Gaza. "We have to go in," the Israeli leader said, according to three Israeli and U.S. sources briefed on the call.

Hamas has promised to execute captives taken to Gaza if Israel attacks. Soldiers, men, women, children, young, the elderly, over 100 captives have been taken to Gaza.

Palestinian Prime Minister Mohammad Shtayyeh blamed Israel for the war, accusing it of "creating a climate of hatred, violence, incitement, and violating international law." Of course. It’s your fault. No, it’s your fault. No, it’s your fault.

The relationship between Israel and Palestine has never been smooth. Looking at it from an historical perspective is beyond anything I could write in a blog. Or even understand. It’s going to be long, bloody, and will never solve the issues that have brought these two peoples to this point.

Eleven Americans are reported dead. The US is sending ammunition, guided missile cruisers and other support. Iran appears to have supported Hamas. Could the US engage in warfare with Iran?

Just another Saturday.

But here in the USA...

Saturday, a week later. The 6-0 Oregon Ducks played the 12-0 Washington Huskies in Seattle. The tying short field goal sailed wide, and the Huskies won. Thirty seconds later the cameras recorded the rapturous Husky fans gathered on the field celebrating the team’s unexpected win.

Three Days Later.

Israel-Hamas War

Israel and Palestinians Blame Each Other for Blast at Gaza Hospital That Killed Hundreds

Gazan health authorities said the explosion was caused by an Israeli airstrike. The Israel Defense Forces said it was caused by a malfunctioning rocket fired by a Palestinian armed group.

Simon and Garfunkel sang it in the seventies when they combined “Silent Night” with the horror of the daily news.

After the LA riots Rodney King, the trucker who was beaten by LA policemen said,

"People, I just want to say, can't we all get along? Can't we all get along?"

“Imagine there’s no countries/It isn’t hard to do/Nothing to kill or die for/And no religion too/Imagine all the people/Living life in peace” John Lennon

A relic from the sixties

Three Parks

Jadyne and I had last visited Yellowstone and the Tetons more than fifty years ago. It was time. We added Glacier National Park to the list, planned to drive our Tesla to Montana, drop down to Yellowstone, then the Tetons, then head home. We didn’t. We couldn’t find enough ways to charge the car in northern Montana, so we opted to fly to Bozeman, rent a car, then drive. We chose September 10th to leave, knowing that all schools were in session, and the likelihood of an early autumn snowfall was remote.

We began at Glacier.

On our last day we drove the “Going to the Sun” road, which goes from West Glacier to East Glacier, a 56 mile drive that takes almost an entire day.

Along with the majestic scenery we were able to find hidden waterfalls.

And one of the last remaining glaciers.

The drive to Yellowstone took us down two-lane highways and across the Montana that I had always pictured in my mind.

Jadyne drove while I shot out the window.

On the fourth day we arrived at West Yellowstone, the home of the Stagecoach Inn and its two flat screen TVs, both tuned to FOX news. We entered the park the next morning, passing by the Madison River. It was 7:30, 31 degrees. I stopped along the road.

Signs warned us of road construction on the 30 mile drive to Old Faithful, so we weren’t surprised when we stopped. Thirty minutes later Jadyne became impatient and went out walking, thinking that when traffic started to move again I could pick her up. She returned after a few minutes, out of breath. “Buffalos!” she said, and so I was off, walking up the road, past the stopped traffic, cameras in hand. Where everything changed was when I saw that the bison weren’t off the road; the entire herd was crossing the road. and I was among the herd. A ranger in a pickup truck spotted me. He shouted, “You’re going to get killed! Get back in your car!” Funny, my car was about ten cars behind me, in the same direction that the herd was going. I knocked on the door of a car in the middle of the herd, and they let me in, but not before I did what people would expect me to do—check camera settings, focus carefully, and hold the camera steady.

After surviving the herd we saw the usual cast of characters—geysers, hot pools, mud pots, and of course, Old Faithful.

It’s only a hop, step, and jump to the Tetons and our Heart Six Ranch.

Short on room amenities, the Heart Six Ranch more than made up for its shortcomings. 115 horses, an unobstructed view of the Tetons…the disappointments were bearable.

Too many photo opportunities. On the last day we caught the first snowfall on the Tetons at sunrise.

I’ve deliberately kept this post short. The trip was extraordinary, way above expectations. It was time to get out of our California bubble, even if the alternative was FOX news and a thousand Dodge RAMs.

I have posted about sixty images on my website, far too many to post on a blog.

Il Travatore

We spent an evening with Nancie and Charlie a week ago. Nancy is a pianist and a composer. Charlie is a well-respected pediatric specialist at UCSF. They both love opera. They had just returned from a night in San Francisco watching Verdi’s Il Travatore. They insisted that we go, too, but as a late-in-the-decade septuagenarian I tend to go to bed before curtains are raised. Life of the party? Ha! Most parties start after I've sawed me a few Zzzzzzs. Alas! The last performance was yesterday, a matineé. I had no choice.

Doomed.

For $80 a seat we sat in the balcony, about a runway’s length from the stage. We could see the outline of the stage, but the actors looked like little action figures. This, at the end of the performance.

To be fair, we enjoyed it. Everybody gets killed. One man unknowingly kills his own brother. A mother throws her baby into a fire. Her own mother was burned at the stake. Scorcese had nothing on Verdi. This was not Taylor Swift.

The voices were extraordinary. Even in the cavernous Opera House the singers’ voices could reach well beyond the large florid doors that separate the opera house from Van Ness Avenue, causing cars to swerve, and red lights to be run. And the softest of whispers carried deep into seats B 1 and 2. We were converted.

Having never attended an opera I expected all patrons to be wearing long dresses or tuxedos. Wrong. Shorts, t-shirts, sandals…I was overdressed in a shirt and pants with a belt. I wanted to see who came to an opera, not who were socially extorted, as we were. This is what I saw.

Two ladies at Will Call

A pretty Asian lady

A Woman waiting for a friend

Another woman waiting for a friend. Her expression reflects what I felt going in.

White socks?????

But going back to my first two ladies. They actually look as if they chose to go, perhaps even paid for their tickets.

This is the way you’re supposed to dress at the opera. Next time it’s shorts and sandals…with white socks.

BTW…here’s Nancie, the composer:

Oh, Happy Day!

Not really. That Donald Trump was arrested again, charged a zilion times more, isn’t a cause for celebration. Armistice Day, yes! Neil Armstrong’s first steps on the moon, yes! The end of the Third Reich, yes! The first presidential mug shot from Fulton County, no!

For a $47 pledge you can get a t-shirt with this photo on it. Subjoined are the words “Never Surrender!”, although he had already surrendered four times. He was surrendering when they took this photograph.

Trump and his advisors planned and practiced the look they wanted for this image. Stanley Kubrick, the film director, had employed it a number of times on the faces of the deranged villains in his movies. Jack Nicholson in “The Shining” is an example. You tilt your head downward, look at the lens from this head lowered position, adopt a facial expression that suggests an attitude of anger, retribution, seriousness, determination, and above all menace. And the unmistakable look of a psychopath. Let’s not forget that. “If you go after me, I’m coming after you.”

Coink-a-dink?

I had to add this from Twitter, er “X”, as memes are a wonderful cultural phenomenon. When Biden was asked about Trump’s mugshot he replied, "Handsome guy," Biden said. "Wonderful guy." Sarcasm, meme’s twin.

Two can play the same game. Trump is using his mugshot as a fund-raiser. Joe Biden took the less than flattering nickname “Brandon” and turned it into a promising campaign ad. “Dark Brandon” is a Republican nightmare.

After his twenty minute stint at the jail Trump spoke to reporters briefly before climbing back on his jet. “What has taken place here is a travesty of justice. We did nothing wrong. I did nothing wrong. And everybody knows it. I’ve never had such support.”

No Donnie, not everybody thinks that way. According to US News, “Three-fourths of Americans in the poll say Trump did something wrong. That includes 46% who believe the former president has broken the law, and another 29% who think Trump did something unethical but not illegal.”

So why wasn’t this a happy day? For some (me) it was, at least for a moment. Sarah Palin was asked in an interview, “Do you have concerns for the country?” She replied, "Yeah, absolutely, I mean, I think those who are conducting this travesty and creating this two-tier system of justice, I want to ask them: What the heck? Do you want us to be in civil war? Because that’s what’s going to happen."

Granted, Ms. Palin isn’t one of the Republican intellectual heavyweights, but if not Sarah, then who? Lauren ‘dancing in the sunflowers” Boebert?, Marjorie “should I choose a cabinet position of just settle on VP,? Greene” Andy, “I introduced a bill that will cut federal funds to the district attorney’s office in Fulton County and require the office to repay any funds granted after Jan 1, 2021, Biggs? Or Vivek, “I’m louder, more obnoxious, and more annoying than the man I worship” Ramaswamy? Or Ron, “Select all the photos with a bus in them…Captcha…I' am not a robot” DeSantis?” Or Mike, featured in the revised version of the New Testament, somewhere between Matthew and Mark in “The Gospel of Mike Pence” Pence? Or more to the point, “For four years minus one day I was a lapdog, but for one day, I’m a hero?” Nominations are open.

Hey, Mike, what would Jesus do?

Nothing that can’t be solved with Kyle Rittenhouse’s AR-15.