Plus ça change, plus c'est la même chose

After several weeks of sending Russian soldiers to Belarus for “training exercises” and “military games”, the exercises and the games came to an end about ten days ago. From a text message that was revealed between a dead Russian soldier and his mother.

“There is a real war raging here..” he wrote. Indeed. A forty mile long convoy of military weaponry is outside the capital city of Kiev. Russians have enveloped all of Ukraine in the worst fighting since the end of WWII. The heavily armed Russians are finding determination and pluck in the Ukrainians who have chosen to stay. The world has found a new hero in Zelensky.

A 79 year old Ukrainian grandmother brandishes an AK-47.

Vladimir Putin finds himself and his country under economic attack. Money kept overseas is frozen, oligarchs’ yachts are confiscated, the ruble is in free fall, bars won’t serve Russian vodka, Germany has abandoned its long held position of neutrality and has sent weapons to Ukraine, Switzerland has frozen Russian accounts. Visa and MasterCard have ceased doing business in Russia, McDonalds closed all their stores, the US is banning all energy exports from Russia. Putin is a miniscule little man in the same mold as Donald Trump, as Hitler, and other little people who believe in force over freedom. Ukraine is the rock, Russia, the paper, and the rest of the world, the scissors. The world isn’t just cutting the paper, it’s shredding it. Over three thousand Russian soldiers have been killed. Putin thought that it was his fight and his fight alone. He didn’t expect that the rest of the world would unite behind Ukraine.

Here’s what it’s all about in four photographs.

Suffering.

Destruction

Refugees

…and death

A woman and her two children, killed while trying to escape. Evil has taken up residence in Putin’s heart.

Putin is one of a long line of small insignificant blobs of misaligned protoplasm, a specimen or organism, not a person, who believes the power that exists only to support their narcissism and delusions. Putin is just the current one. They breed in Russia. The history of humanity is mirrored in the history of war. It won’t end well. It never does.

He’s Ozymandias redux.

“I met a traveller from an antique land,
Who said—“Two vast and trunkless legs of stone

Stand in the desert. . . . Near them, on the sand,
Half sunk a shattered visage lies, whose frown,
And wrinkled lip, and sneer of cold command,
Tell that its sculptor well those passions read
Which yet survive, stamped on these lifeless things,

The hand that mocked them, and the heart that fed;
And on the pedestal, these words appear:

My name is Ozymandias, King of Kings;
Look on my Works, ye Mighty, and despair!
Nothing beside remains. Round the decay
Of that colossal Wreck, boundless and bare
The lone and level sands stretch far away.”

Yeats

The Second Coming 

BY WILLIAM BUTLER YEATS

Turning and turning in the widening gyre
The falcon cannot hear the falconer;
Things fall apart; the centre cannot hold;
Mere anarchy is loosed upon the world,
The blood-dimmed tide is loosed, and everywhere
The ceremony of innocence is drowned;
The best lack all conviction, while the worst
Are full of passionate intensity.
Surely some revelation is at hand;
Surely the Second Coming is at hand.
The Second Coming! Hardly are those words out
When a vast image out of Spiritus Mundi
Troubles my sight: somewhere in sands of the desert
A shape with lion body and the head of a man,
A gaze blank and pitiless as the sun,
Is moving its slow thighs, while all about it
Reel shadows of the indignant desert birds.
The darkness drops again; but now I know
That twenty centuries of stony sleep
Were vexed to nightmare by a rocking cradle,
And what rough beast, its hour come round at last,
Slouches towards Bethlehem to be born?

The more things change, the more they remain the same.


Schadenfreude scha·den·freu·de /ˈSHädənˌfroidə/

“Schadenfreude is a combination of the German nouns Schaden, meaning "damage" or "harm," and Freude, meaning "joy." So it makes sense that schadenfreude means joy over some harm or misfortune suffered by another.” Merriam-Webster.

“I don’t hate anyone,” Al said last Saturday night, responding to an unusual question I had asked my wife and our four friends: “Is there anyone that you either know or know of whose death would bring you pleasure?”

Al and his wife Tracy have been dealing with issues that began when the marriage of their daughter, Becky and her husband, Marcus, fell apart. The two are divorced and share custody of their three children. Sort of. The thirteen year old daughter, Kaylee, changed her name to “Finn” some time ago because her father was the parent who named her. She hates her father. Even though Becky and Marcus share custody, a judge has ruled that Finn doesn’t have to see Marcus. She intends to select a different last name when she’s eighteen and can do it legally.

After a few moments, Al and Tracy both answered, “Marcus.” Imagine the pain that one person can cause to us, so much so that we would derive pleasure from his passing.

I tried to separate that feeling from hate. Like Al, I don’t hate anyone, either. Hating changes the chemistry in the brain. According to health experts, hate is associated with poor emotional well-being, feelings of anger, shame, and fear. Haters tend to experience poor mental health, including depression, anxiety, post traumatic stress and suicidal behavior.

When I asked my ex-neighbor Bob Frassetto after a neighborly disagreement if he was ever going to talk to me again, he replied, “You disgust me!” I was shocked. I didn’t hate him. But he hated me. He was the one carrying the burden. Bearing the weight of hate doesn’t make you stronger. It weakens you.

You don’t have to wish for someone to die to experience schadenfreude. A video shows a man walking across in front of a car and threatening the driver, giving him the middle finger. He’s so intent on looking at the driver and yelling at him that he walks into a telephone pole. A couple of weeks ago John was behind a driver who threw paper, wrappers, and a half-eaten burrito onto the left turn lane as we were waiting for the traffic light to change. John jumped out of the car, picked up the trash and threw it into the front seat, sending rice and sour cream over the driver and dashboard. “You dropped this,” he said. We loved it. A pastor in Florida preached that floods were sent by God to punish homosexuals. His house flooded. He escaped in a canoe. There are pleasures associated with schadenfreude. When someone gets his “just desserts” we do enjoy it.

I’m not innocent. I interchange the word “Schadenfreude” with “Karma.” A driver passes us at an excessive speed and two minutes later he’s on the side of the road with a black and white behind him. Yes!, we yell out, cheerfully.

When I heard that Trump had Covid I celebrated. I hoped that he would die. I don’t hate Trump. His image, his presence, his gestalt, though physically distant from me, has occupied so much of the space behind my eyes in the last five or six years, replacing all that I might have thought about, enjoyed, appreciated, and loved.

The choice was mine. With a more disciplined mind I could have sent him on his way, but I didn’t. I could have skipped over the political news when he appeared (Someone created an app that replaced his image with that of a cat. It was funny. For a while.). I could have avoided political conversations. Would I actually derive pleasure from his demise? His death would be like passing a kidney stone that was descending over a six year period—excruciating pain followed by blessed relief. Not happiness, just relief. sweet indulgent relief.

Of the Seven Deadly Sins, anger is possibly the most fun. To lick your wounds, to smack your lips over grievances long past, to roll over your tongue the prospect of bitter confrontations still to come, to savor to the last toothsome morsel both the pain you are given and the pain you are giving back--in many ways it is a feast fit for a king. The chief drawback is that what you are wolfing down is yourself. The skeleton at the feast is you.

Frederick Buechner

Houses

We bought this house in 1974, the first home we ever owned. Three bedrooms, one bath, kitchen and living room. 900 square feet. $35,000, significantly less than we paid for our Tesla 3 almost four years ago. When we owned it we kept the original redwood color. We converted the garage into a family room and added a second bathroom. We lived there for three years, during which time we experienced approximately ten auto accidents in front of the house, one of which went into the wall of our bedroom. Jason was a year old when we bought the house; Jennifer was born when we lived there. We sold it in 1978 for approximately $70,000, leaving the “good side of town” for the “bad side.”

766 Brush Creek Road, Santa Rosa, CA 2019

And here’s our house on the bad side of town.

1524 Dutton Avenue, Santa Rosa, CA 95407

John was born in 1979 while we lived here. We paid $85,000 for the house, using what we had made from the sale of our Brush Creek Road house, and with the timely gift of $5000 from Alyce, were able to buy a much larger house. Behind the house was a barn, as the property had once been an active farm, then a prune orchard. Much of the land had been sold before we bought it, but in California, where land is so scarce, we had a national park. We lived here for twenty-six years, and this became the home of David Buchholz Photography, where I made my millions, or my thousands, or enough to send three kids to college and fund a retirement that lead us to where we live now, 330 Rugby Avenue, Kensington, CA.

We sold the house in 2004 for $600,000 during the height of what became known as the real estate bubble, a time when banks would allow unqualified people to borrow enough money to buy things they couldn’t afford, reaping the whirlwind that inevitably followed from greed and carelessness.

We were one month away from paying off a fifteen year mortgage, when we had to refinance in order to buy this house for $795,000. We bought it in 2001, rented it for three years, then moved down eighteen years ago in June, 2004. I’m looking around. It appears we still live there.

330 Rugby Avenue, Kensington, CA 94708

In the meantime we owned several other houses, none of which we lived in. A financial planner advised us to buy single-family homes, believing that even if our mortgage would be higher than the rents, the houses would appreciate in value, and that the appreciation would help provide a retirement income. We did that. At one time we “owned” four houses. We sold one of them for $7000 less than we paid for it, and during the time we owned it, lost about $25,000, the difference between the rent we collected and our mortgage payments.

We bought a duplex on Woolsey Avenue in Berkeley in 1999, and in the course of the twenty-three years we’ve owned it, our tenants have included our three kids and their friends. We close escrow on February 28th, 2022, and the proceeds will be transferred to this house, a future home to Jason, Hazel, and Hawthorn.

6115 Ralston Avenue, Richmond, CA.

Escrow closes on March 7th. What still makes me shudder is that our first home on Brush Creek Road sold for 35,000. This one, about the same size, sold for 28.1428571 times that.

Richard Cory

Paul Simon’s song “Richard Cory” retraces Robinson’s poem concluding in Simon’s words, “Richard Cory went home one night/And put a bullet through his head.”

Richard Cory had everything a man could want—power, grace, and style. And money. What could have possibly gone so terribly wrong?

Here’s Richard Cory 2022. Cheslie Kryst.

In the right column are Cheslie’s many accomplishments, and admissions of inadequacy, pressure, and what her mother called, “high performance depression.” Her mother only learned about her daughter’s depression shortly before she jumped off the 26th floor of her apartment building.

When we speak of “knowing someone,” we have to recognize that within each of us is something unknowable, unfathomable, ineffable, that the words don’t exist to describe it. The suicide note that Cheslie wrote was matter of fact, leaving her belongings to her mother.

She added, “May This Day Bring You Rest and Peace” and followed it with a heart emoji.

Then she jumped.

Katie Meyer, the 22 year old star goalie for Standford Women’s soccer team.

Katie Meyer felt the “stress to be perfect” before she ended her life in a Stanford dorm last week. She had ended a conversation with her mother hours earlier, sounded happy, laughed, gave no sign or indication about what was to come.

And Sara Schulze. a 21 year old track star, added her name to this sad list in April.

 



Cheslie was a thirty year old attorney, one who had performed pro bono work for many non-profits. A former Miss USA winner, an interviewer for the TV Show “Extra”, Cheslie had achieved more in her thirty years than many do in their lifetimes.

Last March she wrote an essay for Allure magazine. “I discovered that the world’s most important question, especially when asked repeatedly and answered frankly, is: why?,” Kryst wrote of her change in thinking.

“Why work so hard to capture the dreams I’ve been taught by society to want when I continue to only find emptiness?” Kryst was 28 when she won the 2019 Miss USA pageant, becoming the oldest winner in the contest’s history, “a designation even the sparkling $200,000 pearl and diamond Mikimoto crown could barely brighten for some diehard pageant fans who immediately began to petition for the age limit to be lowered,” she noted.

“A grinning, crinkly-eyed glance at my achievements thus far makes me giddy about laying the groundwork for more, but turning 30 feels like a cold reminder that I’m running out of time to matter in society’s eyes — and it’s infuriating,” she wrote.

“My challenge of the status quo certainly caught the attention of the trolls, and I can’t tell you how many times I have deleted comments on my social media pages that had vomit emojis and insults telling me I wasn’t pretty enough to be Miss USA or that my muscular build was actually a ‘man body,’ ” she wrote.

Cheslie Kryst was the oldest woman to win the Miss USA pageant at age 28.

“And that was just my looks. My opinions, on the other hand, were enough to make a traditional pageant fan clutch their pearls,” Kryst added.

“Each time I say ‘I’m turning 30,’ I cringe a little,” she wrote. “Sometimes I can successfully mask this uncomfortable response with excitement; other times, my enthusiasm feels hollow, like bad acting.

“Society has never been kind to those growing old, especially women. (Occasional exceptions are made for some of the rich and a few of the famous.).

“I fought this fight before and it’s the battle I’m currently fighting with 30,” she wrote. “How do I shake society’s unwavering norms when I’m facing the relentless tick of time? It’s the age-old question: What happens when ‘immovable’ meets ‘unstoppable?’”

Kryst cited her impressive academic achievements — notably earning a law degree and an MBA at the same time at Wake Forest University after her undergraduate studies at the University of South Carolina, where she was a track athlete.

Kryst ended her contemplative essay by saying she marked her milestone birthday in her apartment, “parading around in a black silk top, matching shorts, and a floor-length robe while scarfing down banana pudding and screening birthday calls.

“I even wore my crown around the apartment for most of the day knowing I’d have to give it back at the end of my reign as Miss USA. I did what I wanted rather than the expected,” she wrote.

“Now, I now enter year 30 searching for joy and purpose on my own terms — and that feels like my own sweet victory,” Kryst said.

Sara Schulze, 21, died of suicide on April 13. The family announced.

“By balancing the demands of athletics, scholars, and everyday life, she was overwhelmed in one desperate moment,” the Shulzes said.  “Like you, we were shocked and saddened while holding on to everything Sarah was.”

Twenty year old sophomore Lauren Bernett was named “Player of the Week” on her college team’s championship softball team. Majoring in biology and pre-vet she was a much-loved member of the team an student at James Madison University.

One day after receiving the honor, she took her own life. Bernett's former batterymate and breakout star of JMU's World Series run, Odicci Alexander, tweeted Wednesday: "Love you LB" and "You really never know what someone is going through."

What do these young girls, all under the age of 30, accomplished, successful, respected, and loved have in common? This list, sadly, only grows.

On Relationships

A Little Life, a novel published in 2015 by writer Hana Yanagihara, focuses on the lives of four college friends, each of whom has achieved success in his field—law, art, architecture, and the last, as an actor in film. If you choose to read it you can learn more from the New Yorker’s review.

I found two quotes in the book that suggest that those of us who might mistakenly believe that our chosen, our one and only, our closest friend, our BFF, is the answer to everything. Our marriages and our friendships are not based entirely on faulty expectations, only that in modifying those expectations can we accept and appreciate the complications that define us as human.

“…he was old enough to know that within every relationship was something unfulfilled and disappointing something that had to be sought elsewhere.”  P. 566

 

“SETH:  But don’t you understand, Amy?  You’re wrong.

Relationships never provide you with everything.  They provide you with some things.  You take all the things you want from a person—sexual chemistry, let’s say, or good conversation, or financial support, or intellectual compatibility, or niceness, or loyalty—and you get to pick three of those things.  Three—that’s it.  Maybe four, if you’re very lucky.  The rest you have to look for elsewhere.  It’s only in the movies that you find someone who gives you all of those things.  But this isn’t the movies.  In the real world, you have to identify which three qualities you want to spend the rest of your life with, and then you look for those qualities in another person. That’s real life.  Don’t you see it’s a trap?  If you keep trying to find everything, you’ll wind up with nothing.”  P. 567 

Yeah, page 566 and 567. You have to read a lot to get to that point. The book is 721 pages long. I finished it days ago. I can’t stop thinking about it.

 

Say it's not Covid

…that caused a man to push Michelle Alyssa Go off a subway station platform in Manhattan directly into the path of a train, a brutal attack that sent shock waves throughout New York City. Friends remember her as an avid traveler, generous, and “incredibly smart.” The perp? Martial Simon, 61, a “houseless” man with a history of violence and mental health issues. The attack reverberated throughout the Asian American communities, a senseless murder that has shaken the city and has seeded more sorrow, fear and anger among Asians.

Michelle Go

Say it’s not Covid

…that caused Shawn Laval Smith, 31, to enter a furniture store last week and murder 24 year old UCLA graduate student Brianna Kupfer, who was working alone in the furniture store. Brianna had texted fifteen minutes earlier that she was getting “bad vibes” from a customer, later identified as Smith. Brianna had graduated from the University of Miami and was pursuing a graduate degree in architectural design at UCLA.*

(*A sixteen year old black girl’s body was found thrown from a car along a freeway at the same time that Brianna was murdered. No hue and cry from the public, no mention in the media, no returned phone calls from the investigating officers, and no $250,000 reward from the city to find her killer. But that’s another story).

Brianna Kupfer

We suspect the perp wasn’t spreading Covid. He was photographed shopping nearby, wearing an N95 mask. He was just being cautious. And risk-averse.

You can’t be too careful…

And it certainly wasn’t Covid

…that caused a London bound American Airlines passenger to make such a fuss about wearing a mask on the flight that one hour into the flight the captain made the decision to turn around and return to LA.

“A London-bound American Airlines flight had to return to Miami after a "disruptive" passenger refused to comply with the federal mask requirement, the airline said. American Airlines flight 38 had left Miami International Airport Wednesday night on its way to London's Heathrow Airport when the plane had to turn back because the customer refused to comply with the mask rule, the airline said in a statement.

"The flight landed safely at MIA where local law enforcement met the aircraft," the airline's statement read. "We thank our crew for their professionalism and apologize to our customers for the inconvenience."

Miami-Dade Police said the passenger wasn't arrested.” She was a woman in her forties, now placed on a “No Fly” list. Additional charges may be filed pending further investigation. For the record, over 4290 cases of mask related disturbances have been reported on airlines in the last six months. 6000 cases of unruly passengers.

Perhaps Covid has had nothing to do with any of this.

Some headlines

  • COVID pandemic and isolation likely pushed spike in 2020 homicides and assaults

  • Pandemic's unique impact brings aberration in overall crime not seen in four years, and in homicides not seen in decades.

  • Homicides Surge in California Amid Covid Shutdowns of Schools, Youth Programs

  • Police Pin a Rise in Murders on an Unusual Suspect: Covid

  • First Covid raised the murder rate. Now it’s changing the politics of crime.

  • Violent crime spiked across the country during the pandemic, forcing a reckoning in cities like Atlanta. .

We’re all under pressure, feeling stresses we haven’t experienced at any point in our lifetimes. Some handle it better than others. Some, like Smith and Simon are among us even now, standing on that subway platform, hiding sharpened knives, looking for someone they don’t even know for reasons that they don’t know or understand, just someone. There are no answers.

Everybody Makes Mistkes

As New Mexico authorities are accepting non-monetary donations on behalf of a baby boy abandoned in a dumpster in the city of Hobbs and for other children under state care, the mother of the woman accused of abandoning him is telling reporters, "Everybody makes mistakes."

Alexis Avila, 18, has been charged with attempted murder and child abuse in connection with the incident, according to city police. She allegedly wrapped the baby in a blood-soaked towel and two garbage bags, then abandoned him in 36-degree weather with his umbilical cord still attached. It was, by all definitions, a mistake.

Alexis Avila trying to kill her baby.

Hitting baseline shots in Australia right now is Novak Djokovic, who was denied entry to the country because of a declaration he made entering, claiming that his staff had erred in his application, that he hadn’t traveled in the two weeks preceding his arrival. But, “Djokovic told border officers that Tennis Australia completed the declaration for him, but the officer who canceled his visa said that the body would have done that based on information from Djokovic himself.” I guess he '“misremembered.” a mistake.

“Novak Djokovic has blamed his agent for an “administrative mistake” when declaring he had not traveled in the two weeks before his flight to Australia and acknowledged an “error of judgment” by not isolating after he tested positive for Covid.

Stay tuned. He’s still in Australia. We’ll find out soon enough if Australia has balls, and not of the tennis kind.

And that leads us to yet another “mistake.” Senator Ted Cruz, he of the Republican party. During a Senate hearing Wednesday, Cruz said what happened on Jan. 6, when a pro-Trump mob breached the Capitol in an attack to stop the certification of electoral ballots, was a "terrorist attack."

He continued that "anyone who commits an actual act of violence should be prosecuted, and anyone who assaults a law enforcement officer should go to jail for a very long time. And I think that's a principle that is true, regardless of the politics of the violent criminal, whether they are right wing, left wing or they got no wings at all."

Wow! Cruz told the truth! Or did he? Facing backlash from conservative members of Congress, such as MTG who called Cruz’s statement “irresponsible”, then queried by Tucker Carlson, who said, "You called this a 'terror attack' when by no definition was it a terror attack. That's a lie. You told that lie on purpose, and I'm wondering why you did?"

Cruz folded. He responded that the phrasing was "sloppy and it was frankly dumb" and, due to his wording, he said people misunderstood what he meant. He added, “It was a mistake to say that yesterday,” Telling the truth was a “mistake,” he said, walking back his one and only pathetic effort to be truthful.

Washington Post: Two men are accused of vandalizing a Key West landmark. A bartender recognized one of them because he hadn’t tipped.

Shaped like a buoy, a 12’ tall marker sits at the southernmost point of the United States, 90 miles from Cuba. It was badly damaged in Hurricane Irma and required extensive restoration. The Southernmost Point is a landmark with special meaning for Cuban Americans. Thousands of people shared photos of the suspects, expressing disbelief that anyone would purposely damage the monument.

Police were able to obtain arrests for the two men. They both conceded that they had made a mistake, according to police reports.

Some years ago I had a sigmoidoscopy I was advised by the nurse that I might experience some discomfort. Afterwards I asked him, “When does discomfort leave off and pain begin?” I hurt.

When I hear of these “mistakes” I can only ask “Where does making a "mistake” actually end, and the person making a “mistake'“ be recognized not as a person who has made a mistake, but an asshole?

Christmas Cards

What is it with Republican Christmases?

Rep. Thomas Massie from Kentucky and his family, a Christmas card that he tweeted four days after four high school students in Oxford, Michigan, were murdered by a fifteen year old who had just received his Christmas present—a gun.

Not to be outdone by a colleague, Lauren Boebert of Colorado, one of the two most “controversial” freshman congresswomen, said after seeing Massie’s card, “That’s my kind of Christmas card!”

Lauren’s Christmas card.

There’s little left to say. I’m glad that my father, a clergyman, isn’t around to see either of those cards, to see how un-Christian and un-American the Republican party has become since 2016. when with the assistance of Russia, the government has been taken over by fascists, totalitarians, jingoists, autocrats, xenophobes, racists, high school dropouts, poor spellers and even worse grammarians.

Neighbors

Paul Slater lived two houses away from us. Before he died (about three years ago) we would chat whenever I passed by his house and he was outside sweeping the sidewalk. He always stopped sweeping where his driveway ended, as the one house between us had a long and often leaf-filled appearance, so even if the fence didn’t divide the two properties, the leaves did. Paul was a retired university lecturer on something. When we moved here in 2004 he was retired but employed by one of those services that hire people to look through newspapers and cut out either ads or stories for some reason that I don’t know. A Luddite by nature, Paul never owned a cell phone or computer. He had a rotary dial phone, and because he only had tungsten lights in his house there was always a yellow glow coming through his front window. Sally and Glenn didn’t like that he complained about the noise their children made. And Bob Frassetto, our shared neighbor, got into an argument about Bob’s fence being too tall, or in the wrong spot, and they didn’t talk.

Bob Frassetto didn’t talk to me, either. I don’t think he talked to anyone in the neighborhood, and they, in turn didn’t talk to him. About five years ago I complained that the little fence that divides the creek that we share prevented the leaves from passing through the fence, causing the creek to flood and wash away my landscaping. He said, “I never want you to set foot on my property again.” After a year or so I passed by his house as he was leaving. I asked, “Bob, are you ever going to talk to me?” He replied, “You disgust me!” And because I disgusted him those were the last words we ever exchanged. (I hate it when I disgust people).

In earlier times, before I disgusted him, I took this photo of him with Kylee (a product of Bob and wife #2), and Kylee’s older stepsister Zoe, (a product of wife #1). This summer he married wife #3 and sold his house last week. Wife #2 is a real estate agent, and she actually listed the house before Bob fired her the day that the house went on the market where it languished for three months. We’re expecting new neighbors on Friday.

I taught Kylee how to ride a bike. As she was gaining her balance I ran after the bike down Vermont and Rugby while her father stood in the front yard in his green bathrobe, a cup of steaming Folger’s in his hand.

Kylee is now twenty-one, and Zoe is perhaps in her thirties. Neither one of them has anything to do with Bob.

Greg Yeary lived with Bob for ten years, trading room and board for his contracting skills. Greg built fences, a tree house for Kylee, planter boxes, reshingled the house. Whatever bad feelings we had for Bob were more than mitigated by good feelings for Greg. Bob sold the house. Greg left. Before he did he built a bathroom for us, fixed any number of things I couldn’t, and made many repairs at our Woolsey Street apartment.

Greg Yeary

Maria Curtis lives across from Bob, on the corner of Rugby and Vermont. When we first moved to Kensington we became friends. Her Costa Rican daughter-in-law Sonia came to visit Jadyne and me frequently. She and Paul, Maria’s son, lived downstairs from Maria, and Sonia was always trying to escape the tension she felt in this crowded house, where Maria criticized Sonia for almost everything. Here, Sonia, have another cup of coffee. Decaf this time.

Maria was married to Wallace Curtis, who died, as I remember, of cancer perhaps ten years or so ago. Maria goes to Mass every day. Her house in an impenetrable collection of things on the floor, walls, shelves, chairs, and tables. She has asked me on occasion to fix things I can’t. She brought me expired ink cartridges I promised her that I would take them to the toxic waste center. I may have done that. Here’s Maria.

Maria Curtis

Gary Roda lives next to Maria in the hilltop house he grew up in. My redwood trees block Gary’s view of San Francisco and the Golden Gate Bridge, a view that would probably add a quarter of a million dollars to his property. He once said to me, “I’m saving you $25,000.” “Thank you”, I replied, “How so?” He responded, “I’ve decided not to sue you for the redwood trees that block my view” “Thank you,” I repeated, as I continued to wipe the now dry NuFinish car wax off my car. Gary hoped that we would be open to mediation, so he had brochures sent to us about “spite trees”, whose presence devalues someone else’s property. The brochure begins, “To a Berkeley property owner.” I returned the brochure. I live in Kensington, in Contra Costa County. Gary lives in Berkeley, in Alameda County. Case closed. We’re friends now. He was literally up a tree in getting all of us neighbors to cut whatever we might choose just to give him a snippet or two of a view.

And next to Gary live Guillermo and Davi Grossman. They’re wonderful people. Guillermo escaped Spain and the dictator Francisco Franco, looking for freedom. He’s an economist, works in San Francisco, and can often be seen jogging or walking Yashmi, their out of control puppy. Guillermo makes a paella to die for. Davi makes exquisite jewelry. She loves cats. Her license plate is QAT. We have no idea how many she has at any given time. Once in a while they discover fur outside their house. Kensington is a coyote heaven.

Guillermo, Davi, and Nico, a sophomore at UC Santa Barbara.

Double Feature on the Left. Nick and Russ lived there for several years, along with their canine and feline menagerie. When they moved to NYC (Nick took a job managing the Rockefeller Philanthropic Organization) we were sick. I’ve written about them in my blog:

http://www.davidkbuchholz.com/new-blog/2021/7/18/russ-and-nick

They come back to the Bay Area a couple of times a year to visit friends. Russ’s mother lives in the Central Valley. Our disappointment that they moved was mitigated by the arrival of Anthony, Farrah, and their two children, Celine and Nigel. A Christmas photo two or three years ago.

Farrah’s mother, father and her siblings have, because of some genetic anomaly, had their spleens surgically removed. Two years ago Farrah’s surgery went south, and she spent a difficult January at the Stanford Hospital. She’s recovered, and we’re all grateful, as are her mother and her siblings, who, like her, were named for movie stars. Marilyn, Marcello, Marlon, etc. While she was recovering her family came to tend the children, and on at least one occasion I drove her mother to the hospital.

January 2019, not a month to remember.

Living next door to Farrah and Anthony are Jen, Carys, and Alvin Lumanlan. Their marriage several years ago was billed a “Hiker/Biker” affair, featuring the bride hiking and the groom riding. They’ve continued in that vein, having hiked in Patagonia and ridden all the hills in the Tour de France. In the rain. When Carys was not much older than she is in this photograph Jen went hiking in Europe for several days, packing food, supplies, and a baby.

Carys and Jen

Jen has at least two Master’s degrees and operates a website teaching interested moms and dads how to be a perfect parent, or at the least, how to solve parenting issues. She home schools Carys.

https://yourparentingmojo.com/

Alvin was in advertising, but as of now he’s both a stay at home dad and a photographer who’s hoping to make a living with his camera.

Behind us live the Yearwoods. Kahlil is an attorney. Amber is a stay at home mom. Here’s Amber, pregnant with her second child.

For ten years their house was occupied by the Flinchbaughs. Sally runs the Palo Alto Jewish Community Center, a job she had in Berkeley. Glenn is in tech, and I have no idea what he actually does. We were saddened to see them move. We hosted a farewell party for them before they left.

Back row: Russell, Carol and Jim Patton, Cecile Grant, Chris Anderson, Glenn Flinchbaugh, David Anderson, Guillermo and Davi Grossman, Rachel, Jen Lumanlan, Isla and me.

Front row; Nick, Tess Flinchbaugh, Alvin Lumanlan, Jadyne, Jack Flinchbaugh, Jennifer, Nico, Sally Flinchbaugh, Jason, Reed Flinchbaugh, Susanto, Andrew, and Hawthorn.

And across the street live the Pattons. More at home camping for months in Death Valley trapping rodents, Jim has been shipwrecked five times and spends his happiest times in the mountains and deserts. His greatest work is the one thousand page volume “The Rodents of South America”, available everywhere. Carol, a speech therapist, patiently, goes with him. Jim is a professor emeritus at Cal, and even though he turned 80 this year work is what he knows. And loves. Carol writes letters to senators and congressmen almost every day, hoping, as we all are, that things will get better. Jim and Carol have no children, but they care for an assortment of pet turtles who have the run of their house.

An ex-neighbor and a neighbor. On the left is Charlie Patton, who was renting a house with his wife Donna, and their daughter, Eva. Charlie’s father died and left Charlie enough money to buy his own house. They live less than five minutes away.

Next to Charlie is Nancy Rubin. Nancy taught at Berkeley High School, and in retirement took up photography. She has a sensitivity in knowing what makes a good photograph. She also has a rapport for the people she photographs and has shown her work around the Bay Area.

And George. George is single. He retired from UCB a few years ago where he did a lot of stuff with computers. I recruited George to volunteer for the Berkeley Food Pantry. He created a software program to replace the rolodex cards in shoe boxes and has been active in keeping the Pantry running smoothly. George has envied our Tesla for the past three years and is awaiting delivery in January for his. George is a twitcher and his only worry about the Tesla is running out of electricity as he chases down a previously unseen double-breasted Sopwith Camel. Or whatever. Once a bird never seen this far south was spotted in Half Moon Bay. By the time George arrived the area was surrounded by bird lovers, cameras, telescopes, and what-have-you. Shortly thereafter (not when George was there), a peregrine falcon ended the bird’s journey south.

George lived next door (until last week) to Jim and Vi Gallardo. Jim and Vi bought their house in 1958, sixty-three years ago. We admired the two of them for living life to the fullest. Jim served in WWII and was a docent on a WW II ship docked in San Francisco Bay. A few years ago I took Hawthorn and Susanto for a personal visit to the ship.

Jim on board.

After fighting cancer for several years Jim succumbed to it earlier this year. He was in his mid-nineties when he died. Vi stayed until last week. We loved them both. Good people. She, too, is in her nineties, and her son and daughter-in-law took her to their home in North Carolina. Jim and Vi had both admitted that they should have left their home with its three stories years earlier, when they were still more ambulatory. It will go on the market for the first time since they bought it when I was twelve.

Eveline,Charles, Vi,and Janice. Charles and Janice are Vi’s children.

And not all our neighbors are still with us. Ky, who lived in the Lumanlan’s house, passed soon after we moved in. So did Jim Jones. Kay and Russ Weeks both died, too, but Russ made it to 100. His daughter lives in the house. At the end of the street live John and Amy Ream, his daughter. His wife, Renee, died a month or so ago. When their son died unexpectedly several years earlier the neighbors held candles and sang Amazing Grace. Renee asked Jadyne and me to come to her bedside three days before she died, thanking us for what she felt we had done for the neighborhood.

Of all the neighbors who have passed, none has been missed more than Cecile Grant. When we moved here seventeen years ago she lived next door with her husband Jamie. Jamie died within a year or so, and their three daughters would have moved Cecile to a care facility, except that they knew Jadyne and I would take care of Cecile. We did.

We didn’t know Jamie nearly as well as we knew Cecile, who hated George Bush with such a passion that we were warned never to bring up his name in a conversation. She was as kind as she was fiery, providing us with cookies, cakes, dinners, spirited conversations,and the proceeds from a clock that Jamie’s employer, Bechtel, had awarded him for his retirement. I sold it on eBay for $1000. She wouldn’t take the money.

Cecile and her prized diesel Mercedes. When she gave up driving she sold it at a nominal price to the UPS driver who cherishes it.

From Wikipedia, "Neighbourhood is generally defined spatially as a specific geographic area and functionally as a set of social networks. Neighbourhoods, then, are the spatial units in which face-to-face social interactions occur—the personal settings and situations where residents seek to realise common values, socialise youth, and maintain effective social control."

We love our neighborhood, which, I’ve narrowed down to the houses on both sides of Rugby Avenue. I left some people out. Larry and Janet Johson, kind neighbors who contributed to my food collections for the Berkeley Food Pantry. Larry was just diagnosed with cancer this past summer and has a feeding tube; Janet is a former elementary school teacher at Madera, the school Isla and Susanto attend. To our left is Ursula. She’s Kahlil’s sister, and we never see her. She has two children, both of whom, we think, are autistic. And loud. Kathy Weeks lives in the house that belonged to her late parents. She thinks the election was stolen. There’s a Chinese couple that live at the end of the street and some Chinese students who live two doors down. We don’t know any of them. So it’s a selective neighborhood. Friends seek out friends. Those that keep to themselves keep to themselves.

Josie lives up the street. She calls herself a “Jew/Bu”, born Jewish but Buddhist in how she thinks and lives. She taught a class I attended for a year called “A Year to Live.” At the end of the class we all “died.” The last exercise was to walk up and down Solano Avenue and simply observe, recognizing that all that we saw would be taking place whether we were there or not. I sat in Starbucks for about thirty minutes, watching people lining up for “grandes”, couples sharing conversations, students on laptops. No one looked at me. Not my neighborhood.

White Vigilantica

Admittedly, it doesn’t roll right off the tongue. And in patriotic songs like White Vigilantica the Beautiful, it’s a bit too long. Even if it’s a more accurate descriptive title than the old America the Beautiful, accuracy in music isn’t a prerequisite. John Lennon was never a walrus. And Goo goo g’shoob makes no sense at all.

A lot of things don’t make sense, though. Take Anthony Sabatini’s tweet, he, a Florida congressman.

Let’s parse that out. A 17 year old boy asks a friend to buy him an AR-15 assault rifle, then loads it with armor piercing rounds, asks mother to drive him to nearby Kenosha so that he can “protect“ a used car store from Black Lives Matter protestors who might be intent on setting remaining cars on fire. In the process he leaves the car store, and while wandering in the street he is attacked by one rioter, then another, and a third. He shoots all three, killing the first two, goes to trial and is acquitted on five charges all related to these shootings.

A psychologist had this to say. “"We watch politicians do what they're doing, and it feels very out of control," Dill-Shackleford said, noting some people may feel "angry for one reason or another" or "full of anxiety" about authorities who are supposed to be in charge of protecting us—be it political leaders, police, etc.—that aren't doing their jobs. Thus, Kyle Rittenhouse stands as a symbol of someone who took power back himself.

He claimed self-defense, but as the prosecution pointed out, “You can’t claim self-defense for a situation you created yourself.” But he did. And he walked.

But white vigilantica? Kyle was white. A black man in the same situation would have been convicted. Quickly. On all five counts.

You go, Kyle. Protect us. From you.

The not really Supreme Court is considering a New York law that imposes strict limits on carrying guns outside the home. In questioning last Wednesday justices seem prepared to agree that it imposes an intolerable burden on the rights guaranteed by the Second Amendment, and that people seeking to exercise that right should not have to demonstrate to the government that they have a reason or special need to do so, perhaps excepting places like subways, theaters, and other “sensitive places.”

So what will that mean to white vigilantes? (I know that “white” and “vigilantes” is redundant). As white kids see that their boy Kyle walked away after murdering two people, and that packing heat is a constitutional right, the likelihood that more white boys with AR-15s and other “cool guns” will roam the streets looking for more Rosenbaums and Hubers, the two victims whose paths unfortunately crossed the armed juvenile property protector perhaps on the proposed Kyle Rittenhouse Day, the national holiday celebrating murder.

From the NY Times:

https://www.nytimes.com/2021/11/21/us/rittenhouse-militia-paramilitary.html

In Georgia another vigilante case enters closing arguments tomorrow. Ahmaud Arbery, a twenty-five year old black man was jogging in a neighborhood when a white man and his father chased him, thinking, as they said, that he might have been responsible for previously reported thefts in the neighborhood. Travis McMichael, the son, brandished a shotgun, and shot Arbery to death. The prosecutor questioned him, “All he’s done is run away from you,” prosecutor Linda Dunikoski said. “And you pulled out a shotgun and pointed it at him.” McMichael said Arbery forced him to make a split-second “life-or-death” decision by attacking him and grabbing his shotgun. Race hasn’t entered into the argument, but race is certainly there. N.B. Travis is white, has a young son, and he felt threatened. Threatened by a man who was paying no attention to him until McMichael chased him down and brandished a shotgun. Welcome to Southeast White Vigilantica.

And last. Another trial is about to wind down. The jury is deliberating in the case of plaintiffs who sued white nationalists in a Unite the Right protest that ended with one of the protestors dead and several injured.

White Vigilantica is not the country I remember. Twenty years ago we were one country. We’re now two. I can’t accept that I live in a country that lionizes a juvenile right-wing murdering t-shirt wearing gun lover, a Georgia redneck that hates and murders blacks, and a collection of violence seeking white nationalists frightened that they’ve been exposed for being the trash that they are. Imagine that these people submitted their DNA to 23 and me or Ancestry and discover that their closest relative is pond scum.

New Normals

It was about ten years ago when I began limping. I didn’t notice it, but others did. I talked to my doc and he suggested physical therapy, a foam column that I would contort myself around, like a horizontal pole dancer of the wrong sex and age. Six months and no change. Time for an X-Ray. “You’re a candidate for a hip replacement,” said the doc. “A candidate? Is this an election?” “It will only get worse,” he said, showing me the x-ray.

I could understand. The “No space here” was not a good sign.

He scheduled me for a new hip in three months or so, then told me that he could alleviate the discomfort with a steroid. “But,” he added, “If something opens up in the meantime you can’t have the surgery because of the steroid.” I declined the shot. A spot opened up about three weeks later, and I found myself in a waiting room, ready for “My New Hip.”

I wish I had taken the socks home with me.

The new titanium hip was just the beginning of what has become for me (and everyone), “The New Normal.” Although the first hip I received became infected and the operation had to be redone two weeks later, and I had to have a picc line in my arm and take antibiotics for several months, in the end all was, and is, well. I walk an average of 15,000 steps a day, work in the garden almost daily and, even though my flexibility has diminished, can manage with one flesh, bone, and blood hip, the other, metal. I’m used to it. It became my first new normal.

Then Dr. Kami, my dentist, advised me that in sleep I grind my teeth, and he advised me to wear a night guard, a molded device that I put in every night when I turn out the lights, then leave in until I wake in the morning.

I’ve always had issues sleeping. I couldn’t imagine that I could possibly sleep with such a thing in my mouth. I dreaded the first night, believing that I would doubtless lie awake for hours on end, frustrated and unhappy. I didn’t. I adjusted. I sleep with it every night. I’m used to it. It’s a new normal.

I have often asked people to repeat themselves, as I either couldn’t hear them well, or sometimes make out what they’re saying. I went to Kaiser to have a hearing test. My ability to hear, especially at the higher registers, has almost completely disappeared. So now I have hearing aids.

The little brown pieces rest over my ears and hold the electtronics. The black rubber pieces go in my ears. The stray wire fits into my ear and serves as an anchor so even in windy conditions the hearing aid remains in place. I can hear much better not only when people talk, but at the higher registers. When I leave the refrigerator door open, it speaks to me in voice I can now understand. It’s a new normal. I’m used to both the hearing aids and so many new normals..

While we’re on the subject of hearing…Six or seven years ago I woke up with a strange sound in my ears, a buzzing, or the sound that cicadas make every seventeen years, although mine was 24-7. I hoped it would go away. It didn’t. I had hoped that this sound, which I only heard when I was awake, might be related to a sinus infection, and that when the infection cleared up the buzzing would go away. No luck. I had an MRI. Again no luck. I talked to doctors at Kaiser, and they were concerned that my inability to accept this new normal might lead to something worse, that I might hurt myself. I couldn’t get rid of the sound, nor could I concentrate or anything else while I was awake. I was consumed. I tried mental gymnastics, cognitive behavioral therapy, white noises, drugs (Atavan), and meetings with doctors.

I called my sister-in-law, Janet, a licensed MFCC, looking for suggestions. She said, “Oh yes, I have tinnitus in one of my ears. It doesn’t hurt me. I can still hear. I can still do everything I’ve ever been able to do. It’s just there.” I took note. At one point I thought of the many thousands of dollars I would give away in trade for silence. Time went by. The number of dollars I had set aside to trade went down. After six or eight months I learned that not only could I live with it, but that I had accepted that I will never have silence again, but like in Janet’s case, it doesn’t hurt me, and I can still hear (see above). I’m used to it. This new normal business is adding up. Much as I would prefer to go back to some of the old “new normals” I’ve come to accept that that won’t happen.

So there are a host of new normals. I’ve gotten used to most of them more easily than I had expected, but some, (tinnitus), were challenging. Without the benefit of the passing of time, support from family, and one doctor I met in San Francisco, it would have taken longer, but I know now that it still would have happened. We adapt. No doubt there are many new normals to come.

But here are some new normals that I can’t get used to: One, Trump’s continuing presence in the American consciousness with his parade of lies about a stolen election; two, the sheer number (60%) of Republican believers who accept those lies, these enablers who promote Trump’s continuing presence in the American psyche; three, clowns like Lauren Boebert and Marjorie Taylor Greene, two hopelessly incompetent ignorant pawns, shallow liars whose elections reflect the ignorance of those enablers; four, the absence of meaningful prosecution of all of the above. When Biden was elected we all thought, “Finally!” We have waited ten months for indictments, prosecutions, and punishment. Instead, the morons who run the anti-American party, the QAnon believers, and their subscribers continue unimpeded and unchecked on their mission to mock the values that so many died to uphold.

It is a “New Normal”, unlike any of the others, and it’s damned depressing. It’s a new normal to wake up every morning, knowing that public servants are threatened by death for fulfilling their duties, doing their jobs. It’s a new normal to think that parents believe that they are entitled to dictate what children can and should learn from educators. It’s a new normal to find that the political party that accuses everyone else of cheating is doing all the cheating. It’s a new normal that that political party discourages voting and passes laws to restrict the ability to vote for those who aren’t rich and white. It’s a new normal to discover the woeful absence of courage and honesty among the elected. My personal “new normals” weren’t reversible. Perhaps these are. Forever the optimist.

After "After"

Bruce Greyson, M.D., a psychiatrist, wrote a book about NDEs, or Near Death Experiences. Jason handed it to me. He said, “You might want to read this.” I looked at the Acknowledgements first. Bruce wrote, ‘“I then ran every word by my talented collaborator Jason Buchholz, who showed me how to bring the story alive and turn the book that I wanted to write into one that others might want to read.” Oh, so that’s why he had it. But that’s not why he wanted me to read it.

It began a half century ago when Holly, a college student who deliberately overdosed, was driven to the ER by her roomate, Susan. While Holly was still groggy and sleepy, Bruce and Susan left the ER, walked to the end of the corridor and carried on a conversation. The next day Bruce returned and mentioned to Holly that he had talked to Susan the previous night. “I know,” Holly said, “I saw you.” Holly recalled the questions Bruce asked and the answers Susan provided, then followed by mentioning that he (Dr. Greyson) was wearing the same tie he had on the previous night, and that it had a red stain on it, which it did because he had spilled spaghetti on it, a fact that wouldn’t have been possible for Holly to have known.

And thus began an intern’s (and soon to become a full-fledged doc) fifty year search to find, interview, and discuss what is now known as “near death experiences” from “experiencers”, people who have demonstrated truths that can’t be explained. After undergoing open heart surgery a patient described the surgeon shortly before he began to operate. “He stood at the end of the gurney, then began flapping his arms,” he said. He then asked, “and why were surgeons messing with my leg?” Yes, the surgeon, a Buddhist, admitted that he “flapped his arms before surgery” as he thought that it might expunge his surgical gown from any germs or bacteria, and the doctors messing with his leg?” They were stripping a vein out of his leg to be used to create a bypass graft for his heart. The patient was fully anesthetized and his eyes were taped shut so he couldn’t blink. He shouldn’t have been able to see anything. And yet he did. He saw it all. From the ceiling. The Buddhist surgeon affirmed the arm flapping part, then added, “I’m a Buddhist. There are things we don’t understand.”

Greyson’s colleagues were skeptical. Without scientific evidence his interviews were anecdotal, insufficient. Greyson remarked, “You can sweep these things under the carpet for only so long; at some point the furniture begins to topple over.” Despite trying to engineer these experiences by placing an unfamiliar “target” in the operating room, hoping that a heart patient might, when he was under an anesthetic, remember or take note of it. It didn’t happen.

Two parts resonated with me. First, Greyson clearly identifies that although the brain and the mind need each other, they are different from each other, too. For many of the experiencers, the mind continued even when the heart and brain waves flat-lined. It is unclear just how the two are connected, how they work with each other, but if there really is something to these experiences, then it’s notable that the mind continues independently of the brain. Second, almost all the experiences focus on light and love. People describe going through tunnels, becoming overwhelmed by brilliant light, appearing in a dimension where they feel overwhelming love—for themselves and outwardly for others. Traditional religions are subjugated by this love, as these near death experiences affected atheists, agnostics, Christians, and all others equally. No Jesus. No bearded deity on a golden throne. No Allah. Atheists began to believe something. Many who approached death’s door and returned lost their fear of dying. In almost all cases, experiencers’ lives changed immediately after the NDE, and all for the better.

I’ve never believed in heaven or hell. It’s comforting and affirming, though, to think that something continues. I remember an image that I picked up in a college class. A bird flying through the night flies into an open window in a house, then flies out another window. The house is our life here on earth. The bird is our soul, our mind, or the part of us that existed before we were born and remains after we die.

Greyson met the Dalai Lama who told him “about the difference between Western science and Buddhism. Both disciplines, he argued, are based on observation and logical deduction, and both give experience precedence over belief in their quest for the truth, But he added, "Western scientists seem to seek understanding about how the world works in order to change and control the natural world. This is the goal of most scientists—to gain mastery over our environment. Buddhists, on the other hand see understanding about how the world works in order to live more harmoniously with it. In other words, the goal of Buddhism is to coexist with nature rather than gain mastery over it, in order to reduce our suffering.”

I sent this blog to one of my high school English teachers, (Yes, we’re all still here), and she said it reminded her of lines she memorized in high school, a part of Wordsworth’s “Intimations of Immortality.”

More than a Butterfly

The Pattons are awash with milkweed. Carol buys young plants at Annies’s Annuals, then covers them with mesh while they grow because the chemicals they’re exposed to in their early days are toxic to caterpillars. At some point the milkweed dies out, and when spring returns the new milkweed is set out for butterflies of any shape or color. Around here that’s the monarch. Here he is in a before shot:

Even though the bottom this image is blurry, I can’t tell which end is his tail. Meanwhile, these little guys travel all over the milkweed, climb down to the Pattons’ patio, crawl around wherever they may please. At some point they feed on their own “skin”, then begin to form a chrysalis, where they’ll spend their next week or two becoming something entirely different.

When the chrysalis is first formed it’s a luminous green. Little white dots line up near the top. The thread that prevents the chrysalis from falling is so tight that even after ferocious winds and seven inches of rain, this chrysalis and soon to be born butterfly below are none the worse for wear.

The day before the butterfly emerges the chrysalis turns black, then immediately before birth turns clear. Afterwards it immediately changes to white. Here a crack emerges between the top part of the shell, the sequence of little yellow dots, and the lower part that clearly shows the wings. The butterfly emerged a second or two after I took this image.

The butterfly has left his chrysalis behind and has begun to climb the milkweed, where he will stay for the next hour or so, opening his wings and pumping fluid into them.

It is during this pre-flight time that the wings receive the fluid that will enable them to open and close, then fly away. The remains of the chrysalis is in the lower left of this photograph.

A close-up image reveals the intricacies of his creation—the spotting, the delicate legs, hinged joints, and even closer the ribbed wings.

But I promised “more than a butterfly.” And here’s the “more” part. When the Pattons told me that the butterfly was about to emerge I asked four year old Hazel to come watch it with me. She turned down the invitation. “I want to watch videos,” she said. Videos. Videos!

Jason turned to me and said, “she declined.” The history behind Hazel making that decision began a year or so ago. Rachel had just dropped Hazel off at our house, and I was charmed by what Rachel had done with Hazel’s hair.

“Hazel, can I take your photograph?” I asked. “No,” she replied. Surprised, I continued. “I like what your mom has done for your hair. I thought you might want to see it, too.”
”No.”

“Hazel,” I added, “I always play ‘Pretty Ponies’ with you when you ask. I’m just asking you to do something for me.” “No,” she replied firmly,

Later that evening Jason mentioned that I had been out of bounds. “I want her to feel that her voice counts,” he said, “and that in the male-oriented society that we live in, men, who control just about everything else, have trouble dealing with empowered women.. She has a say, she has control, and I want her to know that she does.” I was chastened. I accepted all that Jason said and was doing for her. I was impressed.

Later that evening Hazel walked by the dining room table and saw a piece of paper on it, “What’s that?” she asked. Jadyne responded, “That’s Granddad’s.” Hazel picked it up, crumpled it up and dropped it into the wastebasket. Yes indeed, she had a say, and I would never ignore her voice and her feelings again.

Turning the clock back another twenty-five years. We were spending Christmas at Lake Tahoe. Jennifer claimed that girls (children) should be able to make many or most of the decisions that control their welfare.. Jason countered by saying, “You mean that eight year old Lindsey should be able to have sex if she so decided?” The absurdity of the argument wasn’t lost on any of us.

While we want to empower our children, respect their feelings and their voices, there is a line between empowering and the decisions parents absolutely need to make for their children. Hazel voices her own thoughts and is given respect, but neither Hazel or Lindsey can make all their own decisions. Parenting requires knowing the difference between empowering them and taking control, disregarding the child’s feelings at the time. Those decisions need to be made for them and in spite of them.

When she chooses videos over watching a butterfly being born, she should lose that voice. She’s forgotten the video, which, of course, she could have watched at any time. Would she have forgotten the emergence of the monarch? It’s time to say, “No. You’re going out with Granddad.”


Land of Medicine Buddha

California is plumb full of hiking trails. Today we drove 90 minutes to the Land of Medicine Buddha, fifteen minutes south of Santa Cruz, a Buddhist retreat carved into the Santa Cruz mountains, a hop, step, and a jump beyond the little town of Soquel.

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After paying our respects to one of the seated Buddhas and taking a spin at the prayer wheel, we opted for the six mile loop, a trail that took

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us up the side of a mountain, then three miles later, a sloping descent to a canyon nestled by redwood trees and a barely surviving stream, which we hope will become much healthier in the days to come.

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There were plenty of places in the forest to stop and meditate…

and donate…

and donate…

We found our way up the mountainside, past a stupa under construction, and the headwaters of Six Mile Loop, which began by taking us straight up the mountain. I was already regretting signing up for six miles, thinking that this initial climb was as steep as I could manage. I stopped several times to catch my breath, rest my legs, then continue up.

We met several hikers along the loop, some almost as old as we are, many with dogs. In the living quarters of the Buddhist retreat there are several rooms labeled “dog friendly, as dogs, being sentient beings, are treated with respect and are provided with food and comfort.

No doubt the several butterflies and hummingbirds (not pictured) that flitted around the grounds were treated with similar respect, as is all living beings.

  1. profitable land

  2. safety of the family

  3. deceased family members going to heaven

  4. those alive living longer and healthier lives

  5. aspirations being fulfilled

  6. no flood, fire, or similar disaster

  7. losses and failures being avoided for the whole family

  8. family members being freed from nightmares

  9. being protected by celestial beings wherever they go

  10. frequently encountering holy connections.

    And while we don’t know or understand what “Ksitigarbha Pure Land” means, these people who love the land and all living beings, who are compassionate and loving, are all we need to know.

Several redwood trees had fallen, requiring us to climb over their carcasses. Erosion in the banks underneath the trees hint at the next ones to take the plunge.

Several redwood trees had fallen, requiring us to climb over their carcasses. Erosion in the banks underneath the trees hint at the next ones to take the plunge.

Opossums are honored as well as the rare and nearly extinct “telephone booth.”

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We walked mostly in silence, taking in the spiritual benefits of being in such a lovely place on such a beautiful day, recognizing how fortunate we are to be alive, to be able to witness such beauty, to have our health, and to have each other.

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Birth of a Butterfly

Jim and Carol Patton have a garden full of milkweed. They’re currently hosting three chrysalises, although at noon they had four. The monarch’s chrysalis begins as a vibrant green for several days, then darkens, becomes black, then clears just as the butterfly emerges. I noticed that the one hanging from a plant stand had turned black earlier today. I went over to their house three times, then when I returned for the fourth time I knew the time was ripe. I planned to sit and wait, thinking that I would have enough time to cross the street, grab my copy of “The Great Influenza”, then return and read to await the emergence.

Just then I saw movement, the bottom of the chrysalis broke open, and what was destined to become a monarch butterfly dropped to the patio.

Birth + three seconds

Birth + three seconds

After about fifteen seconds or so he turned over and began walking. I thought that he had emerged too early, that he wasn’t fully formed, that only one set of wings had developed, the rest of his body, just tissue. He’ll never fly, I thought.

Birth + a minute

Birth + a minute

A minute later he found another plant stand, began climbing and waited while the sun dried his wings. Meanwhile, what I thought was only tissue, as pictured above, became wings.

Birth + three minutes.

Birth + three minutes.

I put my finger out above his legs. He climbed up my hand, and I placed him on a nearby flower. From past experience I knew that he would cling there motionless, pumping fluid into his wings, a process that takes between an hour or two. As the wings filled with fluid he would open and close them several times before flying away.

I’d seen enough. I took a few more images, then returned to get ready for Game #5 of the Dodgers-Giants division series in two hours and forty-nine minutes, but who’s counting?

Carol texted. He spent almost three hours getting ready for the next part of his life. The monarchs may be endangered, but the Pattons and their milkweed are doing their fair share.

Birth + 5 minutes

Birth + 5 minutes

Birth + 6 minutes

Birth + 6 minutes

Renee

I don’t know if that’s her real name, a nickname, or even if I’ve spelled it correctly. Sounded out it’s “ReeKnee” with an equal emphasis on each syllable. She left a voice mail this afternoon:

“David, this is Renee Ream. I was hoping to reach you now because I have kind of an urgent situation, but what I’ll do is call Nancy Rubin and ask her to send out a message to the neighborhood. I’m in a hospital bed, sitting in my living room by the front window, hoping to get into a board and care facility very shortly, so she will send that message out so that our neighbors will look up and wave at me for the time I have left here. You and Jadyne have been such wonderful neighbors for which I thank you very very much…I hope I’ve done that before. Bye bye for now.”

Nancy sent us a separate message. She wrote, Renee said that “when we moved into the neighborhood it really changed with all that we’ve done—open houses, block parties, emergency info, etc. She is ever so grateful.”

Renee has stomach cancer, a disease that has taken over her body. She can’t eat, she barely drinks, she’s made peace with dying. “I’m 86, she said, and I’ve had a rich and full life. I’m at peace.” Renee has enlisted the help of Kaiser’s hospice care workers. They brought a pain medication last night at 11:00. Her husband John, a former policeman in Oakland, a WWII P.O.W. is beside himself. They celebrate their 64th wedding anniversary tomorrow. Jadyne has volunteered bring her laptop so she can sit with Renee as she dictates what John will need to know to pay bills and take care of the day-to-day expenses.

John and Renee have two children, a son and a daughter. Andrew, the son, died suddenly in his fifties after completing a bike race in Sacramento. The neighbors held a service in his memory on the street in front of their house. I played “Amazing Grace” on the guitar. We held candles.

Amy, the daughter, has muscular dystrophy and lives at home. She used to walk around the block, and we would see her when she passed by the house. We haven’t seen her in two or three years. She was asleep when we came to see Renee, and I suppose, say goodbye, hoping that tomorrow she’ll be lying by the front window, waving back to neighbors as they wave to her.

John and Renee

John and Renee

Two days later. Our timing was impeccable. Renee is leaving for a board and care facility tomorrow or Friday morning. She doesn’t want to burden her family with her death.

Neighbors gathered under her window, carrying signs, balloons, writing “Renee, We Love You” in chalk on the driveway, signing a giant card, and Jadyne spoke for all of us. A neighbor passed by, “Someone’s birthday?” they asked. “No, someone is dying,” we answered, “and we’re all here to show her how much we love her.” We sang “Amazing Grace” and “For She’s a Jolly Good Fellow”.

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This was Wednesday night. Renee left her home for a board and care facility on Thursday. She died on Saturday.

Russ and Nick

Russ and Nick were Kensington neighbors from way back. They moved from the very gay Castro District in San Francisco to the very ungay Kensington neighborhood in the Berkeley hills. We instantly became friends, and we were saddened about five years ago when Nick received a job offer from the Rockefeller Foundation to work in Manhattan. Here they are in their backyard with Marcel, Russ’s dog. At that time Russell was working for a social media platform in San Francisco, and Nick was with Charles Schwab. Marcel was retired.

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By the time they moved Marcel had passed, but they had two other poodles and two cats. We drove them to the airport and bid a sad farewell.

Before the move. Marcel is still with them, but Sassy, Rex, and Bandit have been added to the mix.

Before the move. Marcel is still with them, but Sassy, Rex, and Bandit have been added to the mix.

Neither Jadyne nor I had known gays before, or perhaps I should say that if we did we didn’t know we did.

Gay story #1. Jadyne had been asked by her cousin’s daughter to make a tart for a surprise menu item for her cousin’s birthday dinner, and Jadyne had never made one. She didn’t even have a tart pan. Asking around the neighborhood she was disappointed not to find one that she could borrow, that is, until when she asked Russ , he responded, “What size?” Bingo. Not only that, but he made it for her, and it was the hit of the party. Some weeks later Nick asked me if I had a pressure washer. I answered, “What size?” as I had a low power electric one and a stronger gas powered one. Laughing, he said, “I love living in a straight neighborhood!”

Gay story #2. Nick had a business trip to San Antonio, and Russell was going to accompany him. “Be careful, I warned, Russ, “those mechanical bulls can throw you.” He replied, “They’re really not as difficult to ride as the real ones.” Silence. He showed me photographs taken of him riding bulls in the Central Valley in rodeos. We would only be guessing if we thought that Russ’s bull-riding and his relationship with his father were interconnected, but both Nick and Russ spoke about growing up gay, coming out, and issues they faced in their families. Nick’s parents were from near Cincinnati. His mother drove a school bus; his father worked on the railroad. His parents, though Midwest Baptists, embraced and accepted Nick for who he was. Nick finished college here, but his lack of a degree had nothing to do with his native intelligence.

Both are excellent cooks, and Nick was giving me cooking lessons when he received the job offer in Manhattan. Of course, had he stayed I would have been the proud chef of a one or two star Michelin restaurant. I can still make a mean piece of toast, but we miss their dinners.

Although their home wasn’t an architectural masterpiece, they had two that were. First, Russell made a gingerbread house to the specifications of a home that he admired. It was built to scale, looked delicious, but was inedible. Second, Nick and Russ raised chickens, and of course, their chicken house was designed by an architect. Here is Maleficent, one of the former residents, who sadly, was destroyed by playful Finnegan, their boundlessly energetic poodle.

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In 2015, our first visit East we stayed in Manhattan, where they lived at the time. Nick took us to “Flaming Saddles,” a gay cowboy bar where the bartenders put down their blenders, climb on the bar, and dance for the patrons.

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Nick and Russ live in Ocean Grove, New Jersey, a block or so from the Atlantic Ocean. It’s a tourist mecca. Russell is an excellent knitter and owns a knitting shop in Ocean Grove. Here he is at home.

We feted them yesterday, bringing former neighbors over for a quiche, fruit, scone, pie, bagel, and coffee mid-morning brunch. Both Nick and Russ were wearing sweaters that Russell had knitted during the pandemic, and this blog entry ends on these two photos of Russell yesterday. The fabric he’s wearing is UV sensitive, white in the shade and dark pink in the sun.

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