David Cesmat

…is fifty-four years old today. To celebrate his birthday he’s doing what he always does on his birthday—pushing a giant tire up Moeser Lane to Arlington Avenue.

David Cesmat

A cycling website describes Moeser Lane: “Moeser Lane presents riders with a challenging short burst that tests both their power and endurance. Nestled in El Cerrito, California, Moeser Lane offers a harsh ascent spanning approximately 1.47 kilometers. Cyclists face an elevation gain of 195 meters, translating into an average grade of 13.4% - though certain sections can feel even steeper. Beginning at a modest elevation, the route climbs rapidly, delivering a real sense of achievement once the summit is reached. This climb is renowned in local cycling communities not just for its daunting gradient but also for its inclusion in intense ride circuits like the Nifty Ten Fifty. Whether you're pushing for a personal best or just looking to conquer this beast, Moeser Lane demands respect and grit from all who attempt its slopes.”

Epic Climbs.info

On the Way Up David Reads the Tire

Embrace the Suck. Keep Hope Alive. Strength is Built in Doing What is Difficult. Shut Up and Train. No One Cares. Unbreakable. Discomfort is Your Friend. Life Pushes Hard, Push Hard Back! Learn to Suffer in Training Without Complaining. Grind Hard. Stay Humble. It Gets Heavy…Good! Pain is Weakness Leaving the Body. Become the Best Version of Yourself.

David is tethered to the tire. If one goes down the hill the other goes, too.

David reaches the “easier” part of Moeser.

It’s not a sprint.

Once up he lets it fall, then starts all over again. When I ran into David he was about halfway up. His best time is six and a half hours. He was hoping to beat that today, November 11, 2024, his fifty-fourth birthday. In the rain.

Do Americans Know What They've Gotten Themselves Into?

I wasn’t surprised as the southern states’ results came in. Trump was assured of those. But the blue wall? Pennsylvania? Wisconsin? I went to bed knowing that the results, inconclusive at bedtime, were not encouraging. Checking my phone in the morning I saw that Trump had passed the 270 electoral votes needed to claim the presidency.

I was confident that Kamala Harris would win. She believed and supported all the issues that were close to my heart. I thought that the abortion question alone would bring out enough women (and men who love them) to put her over the top. Fail. She not only lost the election, but she lost the popular vote, too.

How could I have been so naive? A woman? A black woman?

This could have been me on Wednesday.

Mary Trump: “I can't really offer you much in the way of comfort. There is a lot that's going to be playing out in the next days, weeks, and months, and we are going to have to grapple with all of it under pretty unimaginable circumstances. There's no false hope; no silver lining.

I don’t think Vice President Kamala Harris could have run a better, more professional, more inspiring campaign. It was nearly flawless, but for many reasons rooted in our dark and desperate and unacknowledged history, too many people refused to buy into her message of hope and unity. Too many people want what Donald Trump has to offer them. It will not serve them well.”

The Next Day

The brilliant writer Rebecca Solnit published an article that matches what I thought two days ago, what I believed, and why I was wrong.

Hindsight, of course, is 20-20. What did she do wrong? How did this happen? More objective minds than mine will be looking back on these last hundred days and analyzing, dissecting, and discussing the reasons. Meanwhile, we’re left to grapple with the consequences of electing a person devoid of honor, integrity, wisdom, empathy It doesn’t matter to me. That half the country would choose a leader who is a known liar, misogynist, cheat, and felon to lead the country speaks louder than words I could ever express.

So what do I do now? The hours of news watching, reading, worrying, et. al. are gone. I will focus on all that is close, dear, precious, warm, and loving that surrounds me. I have my health, I have Jadyne, I have friends, love, a warm house, enough money, and I still have most of my marbles. It’s time to come back home, to remember to keep the goodness that surrounds me in the front of my mind.


Up Close

In a bio that I wrote for myself on a little sticker that I intended to put on the back of photographs that I wanted to sell but failed to sell, I quoted William Blake, ‘To see a World in a Grain of Sand and a Heaven in a Wild Flower, hold Infinity in the palm of your hand and Eternity in an hour.’

So I look at things. Really look. Close up look. Long time look. I see the perfection of a water droplet caught in the flower of an upside down fuschia flower, the rough texture of the surface of each watchamacallit, that smaller droplets cling, and the interplay of the colors and light and shadow. That kind of stuff.

Our neighbors grow milkweed. It attracts the caterpillars who turn into Monarch butterflies. Only minutes before the butterfly takes leave of his chrysalis he looks like this:

Just a wet leaf. Colors, reflections, a and is the shadow on the right a figure reaching up, smiling as if it’s smelling something good?

Closing in on an orchid.

The beautiful symmetry of a columbine.

And the skeleton of a leaf…

Ladybugs making more ladybugs

Not just objects. Looking closely at things is a part of a larger formula. We also have to look closely at people. And that means paying attention, really listening. Hemingway had this to say,

“When people talk listen completely. Don’t be thinking what you’re going to say. Most people never listen. Nor do they observe. You should be able to go into a room and when you come out know everything that you saw there and not only that. If that room gave you any feeling you should know exactly what it was that gave you that feeling.

It’s a rare and profound gift to be fully present with someone, and yet, it’s something so few of us truly offer. Most people only half-listen, their minds already formulating their next words, distracted by their own thoughts, or zoning out entirely.”

Not For Sissies

“This morning I was trying to tell her that when I was getting ready to come to see her I had thought I was running late, but when I got there I was actually a litle earlier than usual. She looked at me and said, ‘What language are you speaking?’ I guess she couldn’t follow what I was saying, or something.”

Beth, the wife of one of my college friends, is in an institution. Her husband, my friend Keith, said, ”Some of them just walk endlessly through the halls. One of them takes cushions off the chairs in the hallways, and moves them around. Some of the residents don’t make any sense when they try to talk to you. Some are just silent. There’s one little German lady in Beth’s ‘neighborhood’ who talks both English and German. Mostly she just says, ‘Wonderbar’ to everything. One of the care partners was going to take her to the bathroom. She said, ‘Wonderbar.’ The first thing I noticed about her was that at lunch she picks the food up with her fingers. She almost never uses a fork or spoon. The care partners avoid serving her anything that she can’t pick up. (That’s not unusual. Beth often picks up vegetables or pieces of meat with her fingers. Or she will eat her meat with a spoon, and then try to eat pudding with a fork.” Beth uses a rollator to help her walk. A couple of times when I was walking in the hall with Beth and her rollator this little German was also in the hall. She just took hold of my hand and started walking along with us. Today when I came into the dining room, she was sitting at one of the tables. She held out her hand to me as I passed her. So I shook her hand, and I said ‘Wonderbar,’ That will give you some idea how my life has been going.

Pam Devlin is one of my favorite people in the world. I met her about thirty years ago when she was the vice-principal at Elsie Allen High School and John was a freshman. She later became a high school principal at Maria Carrillo high school in Santa Rosa. We reconnected through Facebook. I saw her last winter in Cotati where we both attended a celebration of a mutual friend, Joel Kammer, who died of Alzheimer’s.

She explained to me at the time that her husband Joe, a former teacher, also suffered from dementia. Here are two of her FB posts.

Not everybody has dementia. An email from my cousin Donald. We’re both 78.

“well, last week i had a thyroid biopsy,
two skin biopsies, and a crown bridge
tooth thingy…i still spend my nights
dreaming of ditties, but no longer scribble
them down, because wrassling the
fifty thousand loops and samples
into coexisting with the five piece
horn section is just too dang
exhausting… so the current
stash of 72 music vids that
are online will have to suffice
(whether on REVERBNATION
or YOUTUBE)…d.funked out”

Something about those “Golden Years”

September 5

I had a difficult Thursday.  J was at the Turnabout Thrift Store.  I was home.  I had received an email from our library informing me that a book I had placed on hold, Gunter Grass’ The Tin Drum was there for pickup.  The library is a little less than a mile from my house, so I thought I’d wear my earbuds.

When I walk alone I often wear earbuds.  I love listening to music, podcasts, etc., but I’ve had numerous problems with some very expensive Bose earbuds that I had bought from Best Buy. I had returned them once before and a helpful manager had made some changes in my phone to accommodate the issues.  They worked for a day.  I decided to return them, drove to the Best Buy store nearby and asked for the manager.  He looked up my account and discovered that the earbuds were not only out of warranty but well beyond the store’s return policy.  

At that time an unfamiliar David Buchholz climbed into my body, said,”You’re not doing this right.  Let me take over.  I can handle this.”  That new David Buchholz wouldn’t accept the store’s policy. I stood by mute and amazed as the new David Buchholz insisted that the store either refund the money for a defective product or allow him to leave with a new pair from a different manufacturer.

So here’s what happened next.  That new David Buchholz screamed, “Damn, then keep your earbuds!” and threw them on the counter.  One flying earbud grazed Eric, the manager. He called the police. By then this new unfamiliar David Buchholz said, “I’m outta here!” and left, leaving behind the bewildered, embarrassed, and thoroughly humiliated David that I’ve been hanging out with for the greater part of 78 years to fend for himself, the one who subscribes to Google’s former motto, “Don’t be evil.”  When the police arrived the sales clerk said, “He’s apologized.  Everything is fine.”  The policewoman said, “Sir, have a nice day.”  I left.

I got in my car and cursed that person who came into the store, pretending he was me, the one who lost his temper, whose frustrations and feelings of having a “bad day” would infect others to have a bad day, too.  The original David Buchholz felt awful.  He told Jadyne about it, (but not about the police coming), and couldn’t eat dinner, couldn’t sleep, felt bewildered, embarrassed, ashamed, and angry at himself.

The next morning at 10:00 the old DB was at the window of our local See’s Candy store, picked up a pound of nuts and chews, and drove back to Best Buy, asking once again for the manager.  When she came he presented her with his heartfelt apologies and a box of chocolates.  “Everyone has a bad day,” she said forgivingly.  He responded, “But my bad day doesn’t give me permission to give you one, too.”  Reina is the general manager.  She has a boss.  I went home and wrote the following to her boss:

“I tried to return malfunctioning Bose earbuds that were not only beyond your store’s policy for returns, but possibly by the manufacturer’s warranty as well.  I behaved poorly, became irate, and treated Reina and Eric with disrespect.  When I threw down the earbuds on the counter the police were called.  By that time I had recognized my poor behavior and had apologized.  I returned today bringing more heartfelt apologies and a box of See’s candy.  I am embarrassed by what I did yesterday. However, I’m not writing to talk about my behavior.  I want to compliment both Eric (I believe that was his name) and Reina for their professionalism in the face of an irascible customer.  If I were their manager I would be proud of the way they handled someone like me, with calmness and professional demeanor.  They well deserve these kudos from someone who clearly doesn’t.”

I felt better, of course.  But this has stuck with me.  I’ve vowed never to be such an asshole again, but I wonder if it’s really just a matter of choice.  I tried to look back on why I behaved the way I did, reluctantly accepting that the unfamiliar David Buchholz was actually a regrettable part of the David Buchholz that I sort of like most of the time. That frightens me.  I’m not fond of that version.  A friend once used the expression, “the whole human package”, and that means the good, the bad,…and the ugly.

Explanations aren’t the same as excuses, but my day wasn’t going well from the get go.  I’ve been so troubled by Trump.  I wish him a speedy demise.  I’m certainly not enamored of JD, either.  He troubles me, too.  The killing of the six hostages was harder to bear than some of the other mindless violence, perhaps because they were moments away from being rescued, all but one in their twenties.  Even with the good I do at the Dorothy Day Shelter I think I’ve been longing for something meaningful to add into my life.  I’m making plans to do that.  I’ve been bored. I think I left for Best Buy with a negative attitude, prepared for them to turn me down, too, and when I arrived I was already defensive.

I was reminded of this story. A man runs out of gas on a country road. He sees a light on farmhouse a mile away. As he walks with an empty can towards the farmhouse he thinks to himself, “I wonder if they have any gas.” A few steps later, “I’ll bet they won’t appreciate me coming to ask for gas,” More steps. “I bet they won’t want to give me any.” They answer the door. “Keep your damn gas!” he screams.

I didn’t offer any excuses or explanations when I went back or wrote in my note.  Inexcusable is a fair word. I’m trying to accept my “whole human package,”  the good, the bad, and yes, the ugly.

Just trying to get well.

Incarcerated

It’s been four weeks since I last posted in my blog. In the past random events, random thoughts have led to essays that reflect whatever I’ve been thinking about, or what was happening in my life, or beyond that, what was happening in the world. For the last month, though, and no doubt for the next two the upcoming election has imprisoned my ability to go beyond that. My thinking time often centers on my friends and family, on new songs I’ve learned on the guitar, photographs I’ve taken, experiences I’ve had. Not lately, though. I’m jailed in the Federal Prison of Donald Trump.

This was posted by the 45th President of the United States, a “retruth” originally posted by Zeek Arkham, but copied and endorsed by the former President. These are two of the most accomplished, intelligent, and forceful women in American politics, one of whom happened to have received more votes than the mad poster in a Presidential election in 2016, the other likely repeat that in two more months.

So here’s my problem. Shit like this sticks with me, prevents me from discarding it as pure mindlessness, (which, of course, it is), and moving on to recognize and appreciate the many joys and loves in my life. I recognize that. I know, too, that it is up to me to do the discarding, and often I can do that. Sometimes I simply can’t. Or don’t.

And just when I think I’ve got everything under control, this happens.

Trump, with his famous "thumbs up" post standing by the graves of Americans who lost their lives in Iraq and Afghanistan.

From The Atlantic, “The section of Arlington National Cemetery that Donald Trump visited on Monday is both the liveliest and the most achingly sad part of the grand military graveyard, set aside for veterans of the wars in Iraq and Afghanistan. In Section 60, young widows can be seen using clippers and scissors to groom the grass around their husbands’ tombstones as lots of children run about.

A cemetery employee politely attempted to stop the campaign staff from filming in Section 60. Taking campaign photos and videos at gravesites is expressly forbidden under federal law. The Trump entourage, according to a subsequent statement by the U.S. Army, which oversees the cemetery, “abruptly pushed” her aside.”

The Army, which is historically loath to enter politics, issued a rare statement yesterday rebuking the Trump campaign, noting that ceremony participants “had been made aware” of relevant federal laws “prohibiting political activities” and that the employee “acted with professionalism.” The Army said it “considers this matter closed” because the cemetery employee had declined to press charges.”

The Atlantic concludes, “This week, all the mother of a fallen soldier could do was call out a crude and self-regarding 78-year-old man for failing, in that most sacred of American places, to comport himself with even the roughest facsimile of dignity.”

Footnotes: Trump has called the dead soldiers “suckers” and “losers.” He has asked, “What was in it for them?” He avoided visiting a cemetery in France to honor WWII soldiers because it was raining. He avoided the draft because his father paid a doctor to verify his “bone spurs.”

He’s such a coward and evil piece of shit. The keys to my cell are in all the voting booths across America which will open for business on November 5th. Can’t wait.


Unavoidable

I’ve written little in my blog over the summer. It’s early August, and I’ve thought and experienced little of note over the past several weeks. Family? Jason took Hawthorn and Hazel to Belize for a week. John and Kim are coming home tomorrow from five weeks in Africa. Andrew spent six weeks in Indonesia with Susanto and Isla. Jennifer joined them for three of those six weeks. They come back on the 7th. Jadyne suffered a blister in her right foot, which led to an infection which led to another infection which led to her being in great pain and unable to walk. After seeing a podiatrist she’s armed with amoxicillin, gauze bandages, tape, and strict orders to keep her foot elevated. It’s been about three weeks. Her foot is still swollen, but the pain is down. I’ve been swimming, playing guitar, taking a few images of the mimosa and the hanging baskets of fuchsia, replacing dying plants with soon-to-die plants, and reading a lot. And Blake Snell, the Giants pitcher, no-hit the Reds last night. And we’re a week into the summer Olympics, marveling at athletic accomplishments, especially Simone Biles and Katie Ledecky.

The really big events go far beyond our family. Trump was indicted, Biden resigned, Kamala Harris, the presumptive Democratic candidate, will be chosen this week in Chicago to lead the party into the fall election. By Tuesday she will have selected a vice-president. The momentum and enthusiasm she’s uncovered is monumental. We can only hope that it’s consequential, too. Optimism has reached a fever pitch. I’m there.

I copied this from I don’t remember where: “I don’t want to live in a white nationalist Christo-fascist authoritarian dictatorship under a narcissistic sociopathic rapist under any circumstances.” And that would be my—and everyone else’s—situation should Trump become president come November.

In a global nutshell. Since Trump “won” in 2016 America has become split into what’s become two hostile sides, hateful and intolerant of each other. How far we’ve come since 9/11, and with Republicans in charge, almost all backwards, too! Last week the US was able to exchange prisoners with Russia, a triumph for America. We should celebrate the success, but did we?

Here’s what JD Vance, Trump’s choice for vice-president said, “But we have to ask ourselves: Why are they coming home? And I think it’s because bad guys all over the world recognize Donald Trump’s about to be back in office, so they’re cleaning house,” he said. “That’s a good thing, and I think it’s a testament to Donald Trump’s strength.” Biden deserves the credit, but Vance gives it to Trump.

Trump was humiliated at a Black Journalist Conference in Chicago. He had claimed that he was hoping for American unity in the upcoming election, then turned into racial tropes and personal criticism of Kamala Harris. Journalist Rachel Scott asked, "I want to start by addressing the elephant in the room, sir. A lot of people did not think it was appropriate for you to be here today," she began. "You've pushed false claims about some of your rivals, to Nikki Haley, to former president Barack Obama, saying that they were not born in the United States, which is not true. You've told four congresswomen of color — who are American citizens — to go back to where they came from. You've used words like 'animal' and 'rabid' to describe Black district attorneys. You've attacked Black journalists, calling them a 'loser,' saying the questions they asked are stupid and racist. You've had dinner with a white supremacist at your Mar-a-Lago resort. So, my question, sir, now that you're asking Black supporters to vote for you, why should Black voters trust you, after you've used language like that?" He responded angrily, blaming her for being rude and nasty. Apparently, he thought he was at one of his MAGA rallies. His willful ignorance is breathtaking. Then he broke into full-tilt racism.

Harris’ father is black. Her mother is Indian. We can only hope that this kind of sleazy campaigning will backfire.

There’s so much more that could be written, but I’m tired. Tired of Trump, tired of the parade of lies, tired of swimming upstream against the neverending river of ignorance and consequential stupidity. I don’t want this to go on, but going on, facing this swarm of idiots is unavoidable for now. And when Trump loses again in November it still won’t be over.

"Political Violence...Has No Place In Our Society"

Bullshit.

The truth is that nonviolence has no place in our society.

Nancy Pelosi, the author of the title, is a victim, too. Her husband was struck in a hammer attack by a Trump supporter. Yesterday a 20 year old man stationed himself on a rooftop outside the perimeter of the rally in Pennsylvania where MAGA hero Donald J Trump was addressing his adoring fans.

He was struck by a bullet that clipped his right ear. Trump dropped to the floor, surrounded by the Secret Service, then was whisked away to a hospital. He’s fine today. The shooter isn’t. Nor are three of the rally attendees, one of whom died, the other two, wounded.

Biden issued a statement today: "As I said last night, there is no place in America for this kind of violence, or any violence for that matter. An assassination attempt is contrary to everything we stand for as a nation, everything. It’s not who we are as a nation. It’s not America, and we cannot allow this to happen," Biden said. "Unity is the most elusive goal of all, but nothing is important than that right now — unity. We’ll debate and we’ll disagree. That’s not going to change, but ... we’re going to not lose sight of the fact of who we are as Americans."

Bullshit again.

The fact is, we do let this happen. We’re not going to change that. Republicans have voted down any attempt to limit the proliferation of firearms or even the rights of domestic abusers to own them. This is who we are.

According to Vox: “Trump’s messaging on January 6 is precisely in line with how he’s historically addressed violence on the part of hate groups and his supporters: He emboldens it.” To the Proud Boys he said, “Stand back and Stand by!”

Predictably, MAGA supporters blame Democrats for the assassination attempt. JD Vance: "Today is not just some isolated incident. The central premise of the Biden campaign is that President Donald Trump is an authoritarian fascist who must be stopped at all costs. That rhetoric led directly to President Trump's attempted assassination.

And let’s not forget the reprehensible MTG who posted this:

And the Trumpster wants to unify America. Fat Chance.

The heated political climate just did a swan dive from the frying pan into the fire. The photo I’ve posted above will add to the myth that he is a martyr. Covered with blood, his fist raised, his voice uttering “Fight! Fight!” this piece of shit is likely headed to the White House.

Oh, and by the way, since the Republicans have claimed the American flag as a Republican symbol (Democrats are too afraid to show it because they’d be thought of as MAGA, or consider themselves “patriots”, which is the exclusive realm of MAGA devoteés ), it’s good to know that Trump survived not because the gunman missed, not because at twenty years of age, facing a distance of hundreds of yards his aim was off by an inch or two, not for any earthly reason, but because the Almighty willed it. As Trump himself said this morning “Thank you to everyone for your thoughts and prayers yesterday, as it was God alone who prevented the unthinkable from happening.” Anyone find it strange that God would save him and allow a classroom full of six year olds to be murdered? Time to check your theology. God does indeed work in mysterious ways.

Thank you Jesus, Thank you God, for preserving soon-to-be President Trump. Hallelujah! Good to know that God wears a red hat.



xxxSUx CxKxx

Elizabeth Loftus is a psychologist who has focussed on the nature of memory. What we believe to be a firm, stable, and consistent interpretation of the past is anything but that. She wrote, “Our representation of the past takes on a living, shifting reality. It is not fixed and immutable, not a place way back there that is preserved in stone, but a living thing that changes shape, expands, shrinks, and expands again, an amoeba-­like creature.”

Loftus has appeared as a memory expert in trials. many involving rape. Her expertise has thrown doubt on the recollections of many victims. She believes that not only can our memories be distorted through time, but that we can even invent memories, become fully convinced that they are truths, even pass lie detector tests.

When Jennifer was very little I picked her up and put her into a red American Flyer wagon, picked it up and carried her in the wagon along our gravel driveway. The front of the wagon unexpectedly pivoted, and I dropped her on the driveway, causing several cuts. Recently Jason, who was probably six or seven at the time, recalled the event, painting a picture of her injuries so gruesome as possibly requiring a visit to the ER. That event was filtered through his seven year old mind. Mine is different. We picked her up, cleaned her wounds, then gave her band-aids. I felt terrible, but had Jason’s memory accurately described the situation, I should have been arrested for child abuse.

It is with that in mind that I present accounts of an event that was witnessed and described by the two people who were there—my cousin Donald and the author.

His account:

GIBSON CARDS

MY COUSIN, DAVID, GREW UP IN CINCINNATI, OHIO…WE USED TO SPEND HOLIDAYS THERE WITH MY GRANDPARENTS…THERE WAS A FREEWAY

FIVE MILES AWAY, THAT RAN PAST THE GIBSON CARDS FACTORY…AT XMAS, THEY WOULD PUT XMAS LIGHTS IN THE BUSHES IN FRONT THAT SPELLED “GIBSON CARDS”

…AS WE WERE TEENAGERS, AND BEING

TORMENTED BY RAGING HORMONES,

WE CONCOCTED AN EVIL PLAN…

SO, ONE NIGHT, (AS DAVID HAD JUST GOTTEN HIS DRIVER’S LICENSE), WE DROVE TO THE FACTORY, PARKED THE

CAR, AND MANAGED TO CLIMB OVER THE

TEN FOOT TALL CHAIN LINK FENCE, AND

WALK THE HILL UP TO THE SIGN…

WE UNPLUGGED THE BUSHES WITH THE

“G” “I” AND “B”…LEFT THE “S”…UNSCREWED BULBS TO MAKE THE “O”

INTO A “U”…UNSCREWED THE “N”…

LEFT THE “C”…UNPLUGGED THE “A”…

MADE THE “R” INTO A “K” …AND,

UNPLUGGED THE “D” AND “ S”…

AND, FOR THE NEXT THREE HOURS,

EVERYONE WHO DROVE PAST THE PLACE WAS INVITED TO “SUCK”…

MEANWHILE, WE SAT IN HIS CAR, AND DRANK THE TWO SIX PACKS OF

NEAR BEER THAT WE HAD SCORED,

AND GOT TO WATCH THE TWO RATHER

LARGE POLICEMEN GET OVER THAT

FENCE, AND RESTORE ORDER…

THE NEWSPAPERS REPORTED IT,

SO, MY COUSIN GOT TO HEAR THE FEEDBACK, WHEN HIS SCHOOL REOPENED IN JANUARY…HAPPY HOLIDAYS, EVERYONE!

Riffing on his account:

  1. No freeway. Section Road was a bumpy two lane road that ran above and adjacent to Gibson Cards .

  2. No fence surrounded the factory. However, the next Christmas, when we thought about reprising our actions of the previous Christmas, there was a fence.

  3. Section Road was above Gibson Cards. It was an easy walk down.

  4. The sign “Gibson Cards” consisted of Christmas lights strung across a hedge.

  5. I’ve never had a “near beer.” We drank nothing.

  6. No policemen showed up while we were there, and there was no fence for them to climb.

  7. If newspapers reported it I never saw it.

  8. Yes, kids at the school saw it, talked about it, and I happily acknowledged my responsibility.

Which Account is True?

Probably neither one. It was sixty-one years ago.

Examining the brains of super-aged elderly people whose memories were unusually sharp it was found that according to Wikipedia, “they had fewer fiber-like tangles of tau protein that in typical elderly brains.”

Time to untangle that tau.

Twenty Years

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

Day 1

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

Rugby Neighbors Twenty Years Ago

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

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

Henry’s house

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

Larry and Janet Johnson’s house.

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

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

This used to be Josie’s house. Josie was a friend. A self-described “JewBu,” meaning born Jewish but spiritually Buddhist, Josie used to teach at Spirit Rock, “a community dedicated to the liberation of all beings through Insight Meditation, Dharma teachings, and mindfulness,” in Marin County. I took a meaningful year long class from her called “A Year to Live,” based on an eponymous book. Each month we engaged in behaviors preparing us for death. One month we were asked to give to one of the ten or twelve class members something unique and of value to illustrate that you leave everything behind when you die. I gave away a clock that I had given to Uncle Rowland one Christmas. I had rescued it from his estate when he died in 2000.

On the last day of class we officially “died.” We went down to Solano Avenue and were asked to consider that all that we saw would still be there, groceries would open, trucks would deliver goods, people would place stamps on letters. I went to Starbucks and sat in a chair, watching people line up for lattes, mochas, croissants, couples chatting, students on laptops. I sat alone in a chair, watching all. No one looked at me. Sobering.

Josie was from England. In her youth she walked from England to India. She was raped twice. Last year she decided that after living in the US for forty years she would return to England for the rest of her life. She sold her house, moved back to London. The Chinese female attorney that bought the house doesn’t take care of the yard. She has a son. I’ve never seen her, although she lives four houses away. Josie was a jewel.

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

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

John and Reenie a day or two before she passed.

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

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

Crossing the Street

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The Pattons

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

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

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

Carys at five

Chez Lumanlan

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

Tears.

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

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

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

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

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

Nico, now a UCSB graduate

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

Our real next door neighbors’ house.

…and our real next door neighbors, the Flinchbaughs, at a neighborhood farewell party for them. Sally manages the Jewish Community Center in Palo Alto. Glenn’s expertise is software. It’s been about ten years now since they moved.

Top row. Russell (one of the boys) moved, Carol and Jim (still here), Cecile (passed), Chris Anderson (still here, living on another street), Glenn Flinchbaugh, David Anderson, (retired cardiologist, married to Chris), Guillermo and Davi (still here), Rachel (divorced and gone), Jen Lumanlan, (Your Parenting Mojo), Isla, David.

Second row: Nick (moved with Russell), Alvin Lumanlan (before Carys was born), Jadyne, Jennifer, Sally Flinchbaugh, Jason, Andrew.

Third row. Tess Flinchbaugh (senior at UCLA), Jack Flinchbaugh (graduated from Tufts last year), Nico (UCSB graduate), Reed Flinchbaugh (Palo Alto HS grad this year), Susanto (14), and Hawthorn (15). Time has its way.

I can’t say enough about how fond we are and always have been of the Flindhbaughs. We babysat the two older kids when Sally gave birth to Reed; we also babysat them after Sally was struck by a bicycle and came inches away from not being in this photograph.

Now living there are Amber, Tomas, Kahlil, and their youngest, Eva. I took this image eight years ago before Eva was born.

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

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

Guilty!

This TV image overshadows one I took in Oxford, Ohio in 1972 as Richard Milhous Nixon announced his resignation from the office of President of the United States of America.

The intense relief that immediately follows the passing of a kidney stone (twice, for me) is the metaphorical equivalent of the guilty verdicts.

The New York Times Editorial Board had this to say:

“In a humble courtroom in Lower Manhattan on Thursday, a former president and current Republican standard-bearer was convicted of 34 felony counts of falsifying business records. The jury’s decision, and the facts presented at the trial, offer yet another reminder — perhaps the starkest to date — of the many reasons Donald Trump is unfit for office.

Yet the greatest good to come out of this sordid case is the proof that the rule of law binds everyone, even former presidents. Under extraordinary circumstances, the trial was conducted much like any other criminal trial in the city. That 12 Americans could sit in judgment of the former and potentially future president is a remarkable display of the democratic principles that Americans prize at work.”

Another New Normal

That expression has lived with me since the onset of tinnitus. Or was it my hip replacement? The “new normal” always referred to physical changes, usually those that bring about a diminished capacity, a slowing or a weakening. Yesterday I experienced yet another new normal, revealing but wholly unexpected. Walking on a treadmill at 24 Hour Fitness I became acutely aware that the man to my right, a thirty-year old Asian, was carrying on a Facetime conversation with a friend. His voice was so loud that even with my noise canceling earbuds on, I had difficulty listening to a podcast.

When I finished I told him that “no one wants to hear your conversation, that you should move to a more isolated treadmill.” He dismissed me with a few sharp words, including “Shut up, old man.” He used the expression again, dismissively referring to me as an old man. I left. “Asshole,” I said, walking away.

Unnerved, I angrily swam the fastest mile of the year, trying not to think about that exchange.

What I discovered is that for the first time in my life a seventy-seven year old white male joined the ranks of blacks, women, gays, the disabled, Asians, Jews, Muslims, the infirm, and all those who are discriminated against for how they look, how they appear. It’s not the content of my character nor the color of my skin, it’s the wrinkles in it.

In 1970 my Chinese bride and I went to a Reds game. On the way home I asked her why she was crying. A fan had pointed to her during the game and exclaimed, “I killed me a bunch of them in ‘Nam.” I hadn’t heard it. When she was a little girl some neighbors’ children weren’t allowed to play with her. I’ve known these stories for more than fifty years, but I’m a white man, a lapsed Protestant, and as such until Monday was never dismissed, never suffered slings and arrows. People call me “Sir.” Until Monday.

What I Would Say

An airline passenger recentlydisembarked from a plane and held his phone on video as he walked through the airport. One of the first people he encountered was Marjorie Taylor Greene. He passed by her without comment or acknowledgment.

In the late sixties my uncle and I were walking through downtown Cincinnati. We came across a number of limos, police, and TV news crews. We discovered that a Cincinnati hotel was hosting a Governor’s Conference, and all fifty governors were in town. Directly up the sidewalk from us was the easily recognizable governor of Georgia, Lester Maddox.

When Maddox died in 2003 the NY Times published this:

“Lester Maddox, the Atlanta restaurant owner and archsegregationist who adopted the pick handle as his symbol of defiance in a successful bid for the Georgia governorship in 1966, died on Wednesday in Atlanta. He was 87.

Mr. Maddox first came to national attention in 1964, after he violated the newly signed federal Civil Rights Act by refusing to serve three black Georgia Tech students at his Pickrick Restaurant. The Pickrick was noted for the quality of its fried chicken and for its reasonable prices, but Mr. Maddox was determined that no black should experience the ambience that he had reserved exclusively for whites.

When the three black men tried to buy some of his chicken in July 1964, Mr. Maddox waved a pistol at them and said: ''You no good dirty devils! You dirty Communists!''

Some of his customers were sympathetic to his cause and interrupted their meal to take pick handles that Mr. Maddox had put by the door (and sold for $2 apiece) to make it clear that the blacks would not be served. The pick handles, which Mr. Maddox also sold in his souvenir shop, were called ''Pickrick drumsticks'' and came to symbolize his resistance to the civil rights movement. On occasion, Mr. Maddox would autograph the handles.”

Maddox was standing on the sidewalk shaking hands with passersby. I crossed the street to avoid him, an act I have regretted all my life. He was trash. He needed someone, even a college student, to confront him with that fact.

I decided then that I would never let that opportunity pass me by again. If I were that airline passenger, if I were to encounter MTG I wouldn’t avoid her. I’d like to think that I’d say something like this: “Timothy McVeigh, the Oklahoma bomber, was executed shortly after he was convicted of murdering 169 people. There wasn’t enough time for him to recognize the horror of who he was and what he had done. Ms. Greene, I can only hope that you live long enough to learn what damage you do everyday, and what a disgrace you are.” Or something like that. Hey, I’m still working on it.

What Have We Done?

I wrote this more than a month ago, left it as a draft.

10:41 am. One man. A banner scribbled across my TV reads, “Trump whispers to his attorney.” This is news. This is news 24-7 when a certain someone yawns, closes his eyes, scratches his face, or under the microscope of the ubiquitous cameras that follow him, does anything at all. One man whose every thought, every sentence, every look, however stupid or inconsequential, lights up the airwaves, whose impact on so many is immeasurable. One man.

I just finished reading Neal Bascom’s book Hunting Eichmann tracing the fifteen year quest by Israeli agents to find and try Adolph Eichmann, the notorious Nazi responsible for implementing the plans to exterminate Jews in Europe. One man.

One of his victims:

“…he had been beaten, herded off to a barracks, stripped, inspected, deloused, shaved and tattoed on his left forearm with the sequence A3800. The next morning, he had been forced to work in the gas chambers where he suspected his family had been killed during the night. Sapir dragged the dead from the chambers and placed them on their backs in the yard, where a barber cut offg their hair and a dental mechanic ripped out any gold teeth. Then he carried the corpses to large pits, where they were stacked like logs and burned to ashes. A channel running through the middle of the pit drained the fat exuding from the bodies. That fat was used to stoke the crematorium fires.” And this was just one day. And the ashes? They were sprinkled across the sidewalks so the men wearing those shiny SS boots wouldn’t slip.

One man. Adolph Eichmann, a man who never expressed remorse, who believed in God, who never thought he had done anything wrong, did to more than six million others what he had done to David Sapir. Before he was hanged he said, “I have peace in my heart. In fact, I am astonished that I have such peace…Death is but the release of the soul.”

One man caused such devastation to so many.

Timothy McVeigh

The Independent reported that “In April 1995, with help of accomplice of Terry Nichols, a friend from army training, the disillusioned McVeigh had driven a truck bomb beneath the Alfred Murrah Federal Building in Oklahoma City and lit a two-minute fuse before fleeing the scene in a second vehicle he had parked nearby. The truck, a 1993 Ford F-700 rental vehicle, contained 4,800lbs of explosives and it destroyed almost all the nine-story property, killing 168 people, including 19 children.”

He was executed six years later. So many members of the families whose lives he had stolen couldn’t witness the execution so it was beamed by satellite to them.

“McVeigh had not made any final words, no apology to the families of those who died. Indeed, before his execution, the disillusioned young man had expressed regret he had not killed more people.”

One man. 168 victims. 19 children.

Keith Davidson

A lawyer, Davidson cut deals for Karen McDougal and Stormy Daniels, and on election night 2016, when he realized that those deals, kept secret, had led to Trump’s unexpected election, Davidson texted National Enquirer editor-in-chief Dylan Howard, a co-conspirator in the catch and kill scheme,“What have we done?”

It took two this time, two men whose possibly illegal activities rigged the election in favor of Donald Trump, the last of the four individuals whose remorseless. narcissistic, sociopathic behaviors, have affected—and in Trump’s case, Individual #1, still continue to affect the lives of millions of people.

Donald Trump

For the capitol police who died, for the rioters who stormed the capitol on Trump’s bequest, for the thousands who died because of his irresponsible mismanaging of Covid, like Eichmann and McVeigh, he feels only justification, not remorse. "Why do I have to repent or ask for forgiveness, if I am not making mistakes? I work hard, I'm an honorable person."

Eichmann, McVeigh, Trump, and Davidson, the latter, who along with the National Enquirer made Trump possible.

The term sociopath refers to someone living with antisocial personality disorder (ASPD) — as does the term psychopath.

“The most recent edition of the “Diagnostic and Statistical Manual of Mental Illness, which mental health professionals use to diagnose mental health conditions, defines ASPD as a consistent disregard for rules and social norms and repeated violation of other people’s rights.

People with the condition might seem charming and charismatic at first, at least on the surface, but they generally find it difficult to understand other people’s feelings. They often:

  • break rules or laws

  • behave aggressively or impulsively

  • feel little guilt for harm they cause others

  • use manipulation, deceit, and controlling behavior

Stayin' Alive

Tomorrow morning at about 5 am I’ll drive down to 24 Hour Fitness, set the treadmill to 30 minutes, the height to 15, the speed to 3.5, put on my Bose earbuds in front of a TV tuned to either CNN or MSNBC and listen to Mark Knopfler’s One Deep River, burning off a purported 250 calories or so before returning to the locker room, donning my faded Speedo swimsuit, and if all goes well, swimming 70 laps. It isn’t a walk in the park. Sometimes a struggle, sometimes boring, the treadmill and the pool aren’t always fun. It’s work. But afterwards, there is a reward.

I have a confession. I love being alive. Maybe I’ll love not being alive, too, but I’d prefer to delay finding that out for as long as possible. I think that what I do at 24 Hour Fitness may possibly help to keep that non-alive part far away.. But it isn’t just staying alive that’s the goal, it’s staying alive as healthfully as possible. According to the World Health Organization, the average American can expect just one healthy birthday after the age of sixty-five. I’ve had twelve. Looking forward to #13 in a couple of months, hoping to follow it with #14 next year. If healthy birthday is the goal, I have to overlook the tinnitus, the titanium hip, the broken ankle, stuff like that which didn’t compromise my health, really, just challenged me to accept the cliché “new normal.”

And therein lies the crux—longevity accompanied by good health. The shimmering value of being able to breathe, if compromised by debilitating issues, excessive aches and pains, dementia, and disabilities, loses its luster.

The New Yorker profiled a longevity expert, Peter Attia, who advises clients how to solve a uniquely modern problem: “the ‘marginal decade’ at the end of our lives, when medicine keeps us alive but our independence and capacities bleed away.” Beyond the predictable—work out, eat healthfully, sleep well, nurture relationships, Attia advises clients who pay upwards of 150k for full body MRIs, body-fat composition scans, DNA analyses, and advice he distributes to those who want to go the distance. I don’t take protein collagen powder in my tea, drink bone broth, add extra protein to my diet. I don’t follow Attia’s advice on living longer other than in following the big four mentioned above.

“By incessantly preparing for the future, skeptics say, we mistake a long life for a worthwhile one.” Dhruv Khullar, the New Yorker writer.

I buy that. Khullar closes with this from Attia: “Sometimes I think about all the people who’ve ever lived, and how lucky I am to be alive right now, like, if I died tomorrow, it would be O.K. But, while I’m here, I want to know that I gave it my all. We have this one shot. Wouldn’t it be a shame if we didn’t make the most of it?” 

Why did I write this now? In the last three years I’ve been attending funerals, celebrations of life, not baby showers, weddings, or christenings. These end of life ceremonies aren’t for my parents or my parents’ generation. They’re for friends, people my own age or younger, people who are no longer in the fabric of my life, but they are people I have loved, worked with, whose presence in my life made a difference.

This morning I woke up, took a five mile hike through the East Bay hills, came home and had a wonderful breakfast of orange juice, blueberry pancakes, and bacon. For this and for so much more I am grateful. I was able to do this today, but four of my friends weren’t.

Then Joel,

Then Riley and Mary

Last Friday. My college friend Tom Zemsky is “getting his affairs in order.” A mutual friend sent me an email today. “He called me on the phone yesterday. The gist of his message was that he probably has less than a week to live. He was calling from a hospital room. From the hospital, he will probably go directly into Hospice care (although there seems to be some problem with the availability of beds at the local Hospice facilities). The doctors have him on very heavy duty pain medication, and he is resting fairly comfortably.”

And me? I finished my swim this morning in forty-two minutes and sixteen seconds, the fastest mile I’ve ever swum. I’ll cut the grass today, clean the house before the baby shower, pick up Sylvia Plath’s The Bell Jar at the library, play my guitar, watch a bit on CNN and MSNBC, grill burgers tonight, and at multiple times, give thanks for being alive, for having accomplished something this morning that is denied to my friends above—waking up.

Last Sunday

Jadyne and I woke up at 3:00, drank coffee, then closed down 330 Rugby, climbed in the car and headed to SFO, a drive that can take about thirty minutes, or during rush hours, perhaps four times longer. At 4 am it was a predictable thirty. We parked at a nearby hotel (cheaper), then arrived at SFO well in advance of our 6 am flight to Chicago, a full flight. I had a window seat and saw this as we passed over the Sierra Nevada Mountains, always a thrill in winter.

With our one carry-on bag we were at the Budget rental desk in minutes and heading east from O’Hare and down I-65 towards Indianapolis in lightning, rain, thunder and bumper to bumper traffic. From the window we saw

Family farms, abandoned farms, corporate farms, small farms, farms of every description and size.

Along the “freeway” we passed an endless procession of signs—Jesus is Lord, Experience the Wonder of God, signs advertising the services of attorneys, an electronic sign that read “Plan for the Eclipse. Fuel Up/Arrive Early/Stay Put/Leave Late, American flags on barns on poles, on mailboxes, and just outside of Indianapolis, this, a sign from Mom Nature.

We arrived in Oxford at 8:00 at Paesano’s , a pricey Italian restaurant where we met our friend Bill Laichas and his wife, Ellen. Bill was my best friend in Oxford in the years that I taught at Talawanda HS, 1972-1975. We had met at Miami University when we were both pursuing graduate degrees. He and his wife, Liz, divorced years ago. He and Ellen married in 2016. We’ve not corresponded that much over the past forty-nine years, but we’d both found it important to reconnect. He and Ellen live in Bowling Green, KY, and they were willing to make the trip to Oxford, more to see us than the eclipse.

Seeing Bill and meeting Ellen was the icing on the cake. We went back to Oxford for the first time in perhaps thirty years to reconnect the lives we’re living now with the lives we led fifty years ago. We rented a house near Talawanda HS (now a parking lot) at 714 South College. Jason was born there.

1975

2024

One of the tenants gave us a tour of the house. It has been completely remodeled to accommodate students at Miami University. At $7200 a semester times three students, the owner grosses $43k a year.

It was under the window in the center of the image that I photographed Nixon on our little black and white TV as he resigned the presidency.

Jadyne is standing in the basement, now a bedroom, bathroom and bar. The last time she was there she was holding Jason as 140 tornadoes, including an F5 that leveled the town of Xenia, were striking the Midwest, some touching down between Oxford and Cincinnati.

Bye bye.

When we returned to Ohio for my mother’s 90th birthday it was one month before the presidential election, one that when we left California we thought John Kerry would win hands down. When we saw the Bush signs planted on many of the lawns around Cincinnati we realized that we lived in a bubble, that the sure thing that we thought was Kerry’s win, when faced with flyover states’ countless Bush signs, we lost that confidence.

An Obama volunteer rang a doorbell. When the owner discovered why she was there he responded, “Didn’t you see my American flag? I’m a Republican!”

Along I-65

These are two of the dozens of flags we passed between Chicago and Indianapolis. There were many more flying from houses along the two-lane highways we drove between Richmond and Oxford.

One house displayed both a Trump flag and a Confederate flag, but no American flag.

Although few in the Bay Area fly American flags, they don’t love America the less. Flying a flag doesn’t make you a patriot or an American anymore than going to church makes you a Christian. In Ohio, however, I assume that most of the flag flyers are, like the man the Obama volunteer met, Republicans, and by association, Trump supporters. The irony, of course, is that Trump is no patriot, and although his mailings make liberal use of the word, he and his supporters are strangers to the values prescribed in the Constitution and the law.

Experiencing The Great Divide that is America today was one of the reasons we chose to return to Oxford. We were surprised to see only a few Trump signs, although the election is still more than six months away. Ohio is a red state, and the signs, like the cicadas, are just waiting for the right time to announce their presence. I’ve never seen a Trump sign or a Trump bumper sticker in Kensington. Or a cicada.

The historian Doris Kearns Goodwin spoke about The Great Divide. “We’ve lost our sense of collective identity, what values we’re promoting, humility, people who acknowledge errors and learn from their mistakes, empathy, people who understand others’ points of view, resilience to come through adversity, accountability, kindness, compassion, and ambition for something larger than themselves. So we’ve got to figure a way to come back to understand what truth is, what law is.”

But political differences are only one component of The Great Divide. In Oxford. with the exception of the black student in the front of this image, we only saw white people. No Asians, no Hispanics, no one else of color. Our Kensington neighbors in back and on the side are Panamanian/Mexican; the man across the street is Filipino; Jadyne is one of five Chinese who live on our little street. California, not just the Bay Area, is the true melting pot.

Oxford Square, and the one token black student. Is he the one Trump called “my black friend?”

Americans seemed to really like each other after 9/11. Everyone flew flags. “Je Suis Americaine” wasn’t just the French identifying with us. We had been dealt a royal flush in the world’s collective opinion. We could do no wrong. But we did. Not only did we throw away our cards, but we looked at ourselves and didn’t like all that we saw. Sides were taken. Racial animosity continued. In 2016 Trump brought out the worst of us, and in 2020 he brought out the worst in himself and the Trump cultists who support him and exchange truth for lies.

Jay and I tiptoed into that freezing water when we returned to Oxford, and the wonderful dinner, the spectacular eclipse, reuniting with an old friend, seeing 714 South College, wasn’t enough to warm our little tootsies. We headed back to California, happy to have been there, happier to be home.

Passages

One

Uncle Rowland took Riley Griffiths under his wing the same year I transferred from Whitman College to the University of Cincinnati. Riley was an outstanding college tennis player, and my Uncle Rowland, an outstanding tennis player himself, offered housing to Riley during his last year at UC. Riley and I shared Uncle Rowland’s roof for that year, and although Riley was two years older than I, we became close friends.

It was during that time that Riley and I drove to Florida for spring break in his very hot Pontiac GTO, a true muscle car, the vacation where I began my relationship with Marianne Mesloh, the UC Homecoming Queen. It was during that time that Riley and I met a couple of young ladies, spending the evening with them, adding Paisano (a very cheap red wine) to their dog’s Gravy Train, then arriving at Uncle Rowland’s at dawn with just enough time to cut the lawn with Rowland’s hand mower before he woke up. I was never the tennis player that Riley was, but I was good at table-tennis. We teamed up for the University Intramural Championships. We lost in the finals.

It wasn’t long after that that Riley graduated and married his long time girlfriend, Carolyn (CJ), and we parted ways.

After Jadyne and I were married I tried to enroll in RISD, the Rhode Island School of Design, hoping to make a career in art photography. I failed. Thinking that it was just temporary, I had a year to wait, no job, and a need to get one. Riley offered me a position selling furniture at the Wholesale Furniture Depot, a business that he and a childhood friend, Dan Grubb, were opening in Blue Ball, Ohio, a couple of miles from Middletown, home of Armco Steel and later featured in the book Hillbilly Elegy.

At the Wholesale Furniture Depot…

  • Riley and Dan bought .38s in case of a robbery. I took the .38 to the field in back and set up a can on a post and fired it once. Missed. The last time I’ve touched a gun.

  • I burned cardboard furniture boxes in a wired frame container in the parking lot. The wind and embers conspired to start a fire in a neighboring field.. Riley called the store, expecting me to answer. A customer picked up. Surprised, Riley asked, “Where’s David?” The customer replied, “He’s outside trying to put the fire out.”

  • A little boy came in asking to use the bathroom. When we answered his father said, “No problem, Fat Boy can pee out Door #23.”

  • A gravel parking lot surrounded the Depot. When Shannon was born she had trouble sleeping, so CJ drove in circles in her black Studebaker Lark, waiting for Shannon to fall asleep.

  • Jadyne and I ordered a Flexsteel chair from a catalogue. When it arrived Dan took it off the truck and exclaimed, “Who ordered this? It’s hideous.” I was there, too. “I did,” I said, embarrassed, as it was, indeed, hideous. “I can’t take it,” I said. “I had no idea that it would be this ugly.” “We’ll never sell it,” Dan responded, disgustedly. A week went by. Two, maybe two more. The chair on the floor stayed. A customer came in and said, “Oh my, that’s so beautiful!” I was on the floor. “Yes, it is,” I agreed. “It’s Dan’s favorite piece of furniture!” I added, as Dan was standing next to me. “Isn’t it, Dan?” I asked. “Won’t you be sorry to see it go?” Smirks can last a long time.

  • One day a customer came in, sat down on a sofa. “How can I help you?” I asked. “I’m waiting for my sofa,” he replied. “It was promised in six weeks, and today is the sixth week.”

  • I was a good salesman, so good in fact that a couple who had bought furniture from me came in and apologized for trying to hire me away from WFD. “We’d like to offer you the manager’s position at our bait shop in Franklin,” the woman said. Touched, I told her that I was pursuing my Masters degree at Miami, but I appreciated the offer.

  • Bleeding heart CJ went to a Christmas tree lot and asked for the most pitiful tree on the lot. Amazed, the attendant showed her one. He said, “I’ve never heard anyone ask for that!” Jadyne and I went back to the lot the next day and found the salesman. “I want the most pathetic tree on the lot,” I said.

  • One night Jadyne and I went to an upscale restaurant with a men’s jacket requirement. Although they had a selection of sports coats to offer me I had come directly from my gig at the Wholesale Furniture Depot, and I had my light gray warehouse jacket with big blue letters emblazoned on the back that read in three lines, “Wholesale Furniture Depot.” We were seated in a corner.

The thoroughly remodeled Wholesale Furniture Depot, Blue Ball, Ohio

Riley is wearing that beautiful jacket, apropos for a gentleman to wear at a fine dining establishment.

After working there for a year, failing to get into RISD for the second time, getting a Master’s Degree, teaching for three years at Talawanda HS, having a son, Jadyne and I decided that our proposed one year stay in Ohio, now five years, was enough. I left the Wholesale Furniture Depot, Middletown, Hamilton, Oxford, Talawanda HS, and Ohio in 1975, and with Greg’s help, packed up a U-Haul truck, attached a Volvo station wagon to the back, stuffed two basset hounds in the Volvo, and headed across the country to Santa Rosa, and a new position teaching English at Cardinal Newman HS in Santa Rosa in 1975.

I only saw Riley one more time, at Rowland’s funeral in 2000. We talked briefly. He had parted ways with Dan, closed the Depot, opened a new store called “Gracious Living” and stayed in the business in Monroe, Ohio, a few miles north of Cincinnati. He renamed it “Riley’s Furniture and Mattress.”

Jadyne and I just returned from a brief trip to Oxford to see the solar eclipse, touching base with a life we once led more than fifty years ago. “Whatever happened to Riley Griffiths?” Jadyne asked. “I don’t know,” I replied. “I suppose he’s still selling furniture.” He isn’t. She found his obituary in the local newspaper, The Journal News.

Riley was a friend, someone I admired. By offering me a position in his first venture he was instrumental in shaping the direction my life would take over the next fifty-four years. One thing often leads to another—the job, my failed attempts to get into RISD, my subsequent master’s degree, my three years teaching in Ohio, my move back to California, five more years teaching, and finally, my willingness to be as adventurous as Riley was, leaving all that behind and making a career and a life in a new career, photography, as a one-man band, succeeding because of my own adventurous spirit, supported with love from my wife and family.

Riley died five years ago. I wish I had known.

I can barely make out the Riley I remember in this photo from his obituary.

Two

Mary Wellman was Jerry Wellman’s wife. Jerry and I taught together at Cardinal Newman HS in the seventies. Jerry and Mary moved to Cherie Way, close to our house on Dutton Avenue. We saw them both from time to time, invited them to dinner once. We were eating when we heard a dreadful noise over our heads. “What’s that?” Mary asked, alarmed. “Oh, it’s probably just John falling down the stairs,” I replied nonchalantly, taking another bite. “Unless he cries he’s probably okay.” He didn’t. He was.

When Mary died, Linda Kammer called her “sweet.” She was that. Jadyne agreed, adding that “if anyone called me ‘sweet’ I’d bust em’.” We didn’t see the Wellmans much after I left teaching. I saw Jerry occasionally at breakfasts that Frank Guillen hosted for retired teachers at Cardinal Newman. We didn’t know until Jerry texted me that Mary had died that she had been battling cancer for twelve years. I photographed their wedding in 1981.

I won’t write again about Joel’s passing. I have a link to the blog entry I posted about both Joel and Linda Kammer

Three

A college friend, a fellow teacher, the wife of another teacher, three people who were a part of my life in the seventy-seven years I’ve been living it. By hiring me to work at the Wholesale Furniture Depot Riley was instrumental in shaping the direction my life took; Joel and Mary’s friendships added to it.

Getting back to Uncle Rowland. At a birthday party for him and his twin brother Andrew I asked Rowland how he was doing. “The shadows are lengthening,” he said. Indeed.

Four

Elizabeth Jovel was a neighbor and friend. The Jovel’s fence abutted ours in Santa Rosa, and their three kids often climbed over the fence into our backyard for evening summer games of soccer or baseball. I photographed the girls’ senior pictures, attended their weddings. We weren’t just neighbors, we were friends. Elizabeth was from Guatemala, and her third child, a son, either lives there now or in El Salvador, the home country of her husband, Efrain. They weren’t accountants, but America’s Income Tax, their business, was the place to go to have your taxes completed if you were Hispanic. We went to the daughters’ weddings. We’ll attend the mother’s funeral.

Easter Saturday

My friend and racquetball partner John Holden once said to me, “I’m sorry that I won’t see you in the afterlife.” John was a devout church-going Christian, believing in the traditional concepts of heaven and hell. Because he accepted the King James version of the Bible with John’s words, “For God so loved the world, that he gave his only begotten Son, that whosoever believeth in him should not perish, but have everlasting life,” he figured we wouldn’t be sitting on the clouds together in the great by and by. Without embracing Jesus as a personal savior death leads either to oblivion or hell. He knew which way he was going. He believed he knew, too, which way I was going.

I was raised by a devout churchgoing mother and an Episcopal minister. I was confirmed in the Episcopal church in my teens. I wrote about it last December.

What my Christian upbringing has brought me are feelings of guilt— guilt that I don’t go to church, guilt that I didn’t raise my children to be devout Christians, guilt that I didn’t tithe, guilt that I have harbored lascivious thoughts, coveted my neighbor’s wife, guilt that I have behaved in less than good Christian ways, guilt that I didn’t turn my other cheek, guilt, guilt, and a bit more guilt.

Some of this guilt has a religious component, some not. I deserve the feelings of guilt when I have behaved in less than honorable ways, when as a kid I stole stuff, when I disrespected others, when I threw raw eggs into an unlocked car on Halloween. This stuff has stayed with me. If I could undo them all I would, not just to expiate the guilt that has followed me all my life, but because it was simply wrong. Youth was the culprit but not the excuse. There is no excuse.

Do I believe in God? A Jewish woman in Gaza came home to find her family murdered by Hamas. She no longer believes in God. We just finished watching the 1961 movie, Judgment at Nuremberg. It incorporates film footage of the Holocaust. Could anyone experiencing the horrors of that time believe in God? The constant parade of injustice that surrounds the news today threatens our belief that some higher power is in charge. Still, I believe that there is a method behind the madness. I don‘t know what it is. I don’t believe John Holden knows either.

I took comfort when I read somewhere that “going to church doesn’t make you a Christian any more than standing in a garage makes you a car.” My memories growing up centered around attending church, not in learning and practicing compassion, the behaviors that the rabbi described. That came later. It’s still a work in progress. I question myself at the Dorothy Day Center, wondering whether volunteering there is simply satisfying a moral duty, or whether I really feel for the unfortunates that we serve.

When they thank us, when they appreciate that we are just volunteers, that our assistance brings them much-needed food, I feel good. When they’re surly, demanding, angry, or even threatening, I feel bad, indifferent at best to their situation. One of the homeless asked me for a spoon. I replied “There’s one in the box.” He saw the extra spoons and said, “I can be a nice guy or a real prick,” indicating that by not giving him a second spoon I was soon to be the victim of a “real prick.” Hard to forget, hard to forgive, hard to be compassionate.

So tomorrow is Easter Sunday. We won’t go to church. We won’t be celebrating Easter in the traditional sense. We will express gratitude for the many wonderful blessings that have come our way, for our lives, family, friends, good fortune, and each other. All without guilt.