Stuff

A busy week. Had hoped to pick up the Tesla from the body shop on Tuesday, was told that it was ready, then told that someone in the body shop had damaged the rear bumper, so it was to be replaced. Picked it up Friday. Looks brand new. A welcome home coat of wax in order, but it’s too cold today.

Stuff One

Last July my optometrist told me that that the cataract in my left eye had grown to the point that surgery was possible. Met the opthalmologist in September who scheduled the surgery for early December. I couldn’t wait. Apparently Covid couldn’t wait, either. I was struck a week before the scheduled surgery. Postponed to Feb 15th, last Wednesday.

I wrote about it to a friend: “So I started Wednesday with a half banana, a half grapefruit, three slices of bacon, two scrambled eggs, leftover batard bread (toasted), two cups of coffee, and a glass of orange juice.  It was 6:15.  I knew I wouldn’t eat again until dinner.  Five mile hike, then The Brothers Karamazov, tea, and showed up at 2:30 for 3:00 surgery.  At 3:30 left the waiting room, had blood pressure checked (very high), then a check of oxygen, then an iv in my right forearm.  4:00 under the surgeon’s care, constant flow of water over the eye, no vision, just three moving bright lights.  By 4:30 I was out, with clear plastic mask over the eye.  Through the air holes in the mask I could see more clearly immediately than I could in my right eye.  It took two days for my iris, which had been dilated, to come back to earth.  I wear the mask at night now only.  During the day I protect my eye with my reading glasses.  Three weeks no swimming, easy on the exercise, walks okay.  The Brothers Karamazov are sharper than ever.  Reading is easier.  One month I see the optometrist and will no doubt have a new prescription.  So that’s the name of that tune.”

Sleeping with it is no big deal. Years ago I learned to sleep with a night guard in my mouth. After breaking my ankle last April I slept with a boot. A plastic eye patch is nothing. Just one week,.

I know that this is frightening, but the drops used to dilate my left eye left it as large as you see it as this photo revealed Wednesday night. Normal today, Saturday.

More Stuff

I received an email from Daniel McNevin. He wrote, “I read a post on your blog from 2017. As you can see below, Fr. Finn has been named in a molestation lawsuit. About the time you were there. Perhaps he actually did harm someone? Hurley gets no pass from me, but things may have been more complicated for them both, and the victims were truth, transparency, and young boys and girls. 

I think everybody who has knowledge of what went on, even if the knowledge came late, should speak out to support these victims who now have the strength to speak up. Corroborating stories and insights will help them heal and be believed. 

Whatever you know, whatever names you've heard, share them. Encourage others to. Not one bishop there cared. The place was, and is, a mess. Because you were there with the awareness of an adult, you might be able to help, just by working to connect the dots.

For what its worth, I'm not aware of one Catholic high school in Northern California that is free of sexual abuse by priests and brothers. Its staggering.”

He sent me a list of the priests who were under investigation.

I wrote back. “Dan, I didn’t respond to your last email because between then and today I had surgery.  I knew all of the priests.  For three I simply worked alongside of them. Stack was a friend.  I knew he was gay, but I had no knowledge of his being active with anyone, and most certainly not with boys.  I had hoped that his name wasn’t among those listed.  To quote Mr. Trump again, “sad.”

My friend Jerry Stack is one of the accused. I am, as I wrote, sad.

National Stuff

For years FOX news has dominated the TV airwaves. Some years ago they deleted their motto, which read “Fair and Balanced” because, well, they were neither. Millions of Americans believe in FOX news, lionize the broadcasters, lap up what they say, unapologetically embrace their political leanings. In the immediate aftermath of the 2020 election they were the first network to call Arizona for Joe Biden, and FOX promptly lost 25% of their viewers because people listened to them not for the truth, but for the made up “truths” that they espoused, “truths” that dovetailed nicely into viewers’ faux patriotism, racism, misogyny, love of guns, hatred of liberals, and disgust with real truth. Two new conservative newscasts appeared on the scene, willing to pick up the mantle of lies and fraud. As FOX news hosts witnessed the exodus, they panicked.

In private conversations they laughed at, criticized, and complained about the hucksters who were loudly claiming fraud, claiming that the election was stolen, and other lies. They had a choice between preserving the FOX brand and telling the real truth. Money speaks. They chose the former, continuing to propagate the lies, rumors, and hucksters on their shows in a desperate attempt to regain their audience. And if what they knew to be false came out of their mouths, it was a sacrifice they chose to make to preserve their brand and their paychecks.

One of those maligned was Dominion Voting Systems, the company that manufactures voting machines. They are currently suing FOX news for 1.6 billion dollars, bolstering their case with emails, texts, and broadcasts by the FOX hosts who accused them of malfeasance, revealing that the FOX hosts gleefully pulled the wool over the camera lens, pandering to their ignorant audience when in fact, they knew better.

I have no idea how this will pan out, but if I were Rupert Murdoch, the owner of FOX news, I would be looking for my checkbook.





Dogs

Bobi (pictured below) has been certified by the Guinness Book of Records as the oldest dog. Ever. A record exists of Bobi’s birth, and Bobi is still active, living on a family farm in Portugal. Bobi bumps into things. So do I.

Long before Bobi was born, Rawlins, Wyoming made his appearance. Not the city, but the dog. Rawlins was our first dog, purchased in 1970, an AKC basset hound known in heady AKC circles as “Erf.” And why Rawlins? Shortly after Jadyne and I were married we rented a U-Haul van and drove from San Francisco to Cincinnati. Our first night was in Wendover, NV (or Wendover UT, depending on which part of Wendover you were staying.) The next day we headed East, beginning with a forty mile stretch of I-80 that doesn’t bend or curve, rise or fall. Forty miles. I was driving on the misty freeway when at 70 mph I found the van had hydroplaned on the wet surface, and we were now perpendicular to the road, going sideways at 70mph. I turned the wheel the opposite direction, then turned again, then again, not touching the brakes, not panicking, just slowing down. We found ourselves on the shoulder, stopped and facing the road, right side up and safe.

The van had an engine between the front seats and little weight in the back, so it was unsafe at any speed. We spent the night in Rawlins, Wyoming, giving thanks for our safety. We acknowledged our good fortune that day by naming our dog. And without further ado, here’s Rawlins, Wyoming.

Jadyne thought he should have a companion so we bought another basset. Dillon, Montana. And a third, Bosco, but that’s another story.

And here’s a photograph of Aspen, our golden retriever, born in 1988, the source of much joy and affection by us Buchholzes. We had never intended to get a dog, but in 1988 Jadyne’s beloved sister was killed in an avalanche, and our kids needed something to love.

We started with a rabbit. John named him/her “Snicker.” We went on vacation and left Snicker with the Jovells. When we returned Snicker wasn’t there to welcome us. We suspected that the Jovells ate him.

So then we bought a golden retriever. We wanted the kids to name her. Eight year old John suggested “Pancho Punch,” (not a favorite), then Jason came up with “Velcro” because my brother’s dog was “Buttons”, and they were sort of related. He then came up with Aspen, commemorating Teeny by naming the dog for the place where she died. Here’s Aspen as a puppy. P.S. Not to let John feel slighted we named our 1988 Land Cruiser “Punch.” It was with us longer than either Aspen or Bobi.

Older than Aspen was “Angie,” a toy poodle belonging to my brother Jack and my sister-in-law Barbara. As Angie aged she required medical attention to keep her going, as in $$$ medical attention. It’s tough to know when to pull the plug, when repairing the car costs more than the new one. When Aspen developed sores, open wounds actually, on her legs that the vet said wouldn’t heal, we reluctantly had her put to sleep.

Here’s Angie ca. 1967.

A friend of John and Kim was moving and had to leave Rocky behind. Rocky was a Bernese Mountain Dog without a mountain. An omnivore, he ate little girls’ underpants. I mean, that kind of an omnivore. I brought a bowl of cherries to their house. Rocky ate them all. The same night he ate my white socks. I found one in the yard the next day. A few days later Kim found the matching sock. It was red. We brought chicken for lunch when we were called on to babysit. He ate all the pieces, the bones, two apples, the paper bag, and some of the plastic wrap. Rocky developed a tumor on his leg. When he brushed up against you, he rubbed the tumor on your pant leg. It bled, not your leg, but the tumor. Here’s Rocky.

Totally loveable when he wasn’t bleeding on you.

John and Kim found Huey, a rescue dog. Here he is as a puppy. He’s at the end of his life now, incontinent, but still loved.

Kim comes from a family of dog lovers. In this image we are at her parents’ house. Rocky and Huey are at either end of the sofa. One of the four remaining dogs belonged to Kim’s mother, the others to her two sisters. Maybe one was a stray. It would have been welcomed. IDK.

Jadyne’s brother and sister-in-law have always owned dogs, like a zillion of them. Shorty was all by himself when Sean found him. Unafraid, adventurous, and funny as hell, Shorty was our favorite. Alas, Shorty is no longer with us, except in photographs.

Shorty looking out the window.

One more family dog, image to be added later. Shadow, a purebred mix of about forty-six different breeds was discovered in an ad on Craigslist, then picked up from a woman at a parking lot in Sacramento by Jennifer, Andrew, Isla, and Susanto. My initial dealings with a yet-to-be-included Shadow weren’t so favorable, as she twice destroyed our screen door, urinated freely, (submissive incontinence), jumped on everyone, chased cars, and frightened Hazel. She’s calmer now, loved by the Geens, and no longer frightens Hazel. She’s insane, though, getting her ya-ya’s out enthusiastically biting a steel pole in their backyard. For the record. Shadow can’t be overlooked.

Shadow, 2/17/23

Our friends Chris and Dave Anderson had two golden retrievers that died. They checked out breeders before settling on Brody, who had his own room. Brody was loving and affectionate, and prone to cancer, which left Chris and Dave dogless after a few short years.

Brody had his own room.

“The Boys”, Nick and Russ, lived across the street. They loved poodles and cats. They raised chickens in a coop designed by an architect. Here are Sassy and Marcel celebrating Christmas on our front deck. Nick and Russ went to a New Year’s Eve party one year and came home to discover that Marcel wasn’t going to see in the New Year. Not the New Year that they had hoped.

Our friends Tom and Andrea loved Bono, a chocolate lab. Marrying late, Tom and Andrea found Bono the substitute for the children they would never have. Andrea’s phone opens with a photo of Bono, and it isn’t the time he jumped onto Tom and bit his testicles.

The rest of these images are of unknown dogs that I have come across on hikes, in stores, or on the streets, all doing what it is that dogs do.

My all-time favorite. I had to lie down on a dirty Berkeley sidewalk to meet Haru head on.

Two dogs. Good.

Four dogs. Better.

Seven dogs. Best!

Cooling off dog. Or tired dog. Apple Store, Corte Madera

A wary dog. New York City.

A dog that can’t see. Sea Ranch.

Two dogs that can’t see. Briones Park

A dog in a homeless encampment.

The affection of the homeless for their dogs.

A free ride for two dogs.

A street dog, getting ready to celebrate something.

Many of my Facebook friends are devoted to their dogs. Here are two.

Amy’s best buddies and Ann Reuve’s beloved Chief. I’m Facebook friends with Chief.

We had so many houseplants when we drove a U-Haul to California. I stuffed as many as I could in our refrigerator, knowing that I would have to leave them in Nevada if they were discovered at the Agricultural Inspection Station. Psychologists suggest that bringing the outdoors in connects us to the world of our ancestors, the great great great ones who lived outdoors, accompanied only by each other, nature, and animals. Insert “dogs” here. OK, insert dogs, cats, hamsters, iguanas, guinea pigs, etc., here, if you like.

What is it about dogs? The first ATM opened in 1969 in Rockville Center, New York, eliminating the need to visit a bank to conduct basic financial transactions. One fewer person to see, smile at, or to wish a good morning to. (I know I’m ending that sentence with a preposition. It’s ok.) With the pandemic, the last toll collectors disappeared, replaced by FasTrak lanes as a safety precaution. One more connection, however brief. gone. Going to the Post Office is so old school today. We bank electronically, pay bills online. We can order groceries online, too. They are left in lockers at the grocery store. We don’t have to see or talk to anyone when we pick up the Romaine. At Habit Hamburgers you no longer order from a person. A kiosk replaces the employee, accepts the credit card and sends the order directly to the kitchen, bypassing any human interaction. You enter your phone number and receive a text when the order is ready. We bought six boxes of Girl Scout Cookies without even seeing a single Girl Scout! Online ordering from a granddaughter who this year eschewed even a video seeking support, now reduced to a text. Or was it an email?

Janus, the ancient Roman god of duality, had two faces. The god of efficiency and accuracy is a plus; the absence of human connections is a minus. Psychologists acknowledge that companionship, especially among the elderly, is critical to feelings of well-being. And Amy’s best buddies, Ann’s blood donor doodle, Chief, and Ursula, my friend Gail’s boxer, fill that role.

Everyday People

“I am no better and neither are you
We're all the same, whatever we do..” Sly Stewart

I recently received an emailed collection of historical mages, This was one of them. I quoted the caption below.

“Some of our favorite old photographs are merely everyday people in everyday life.”

When we’re not taking selfies, landscapes, our families, or our kids performing in “Our Town,” or the events that fill our lives, we’re probably overlooking the random images of everyday life that are also woven into that fabric, inconsequntial, meaningless, so common that they don’t warrant a photograph, not even a second look. In truth they are none of those things. In this first image the meaning is derived from a historical perspective, showing a world that no longer exists, even such a common event as a woman in a drugstore shopping for postcards.

People text jpegs now from their phones.

Hoping their horse finishes in the money.

Reading the paper on the train.

The historical perspective again. The beatific expression of a marcher in Golden Gate Park at a Hare Krishna parade in 1968.

A man at work

Just a woman walking a dog. Yes, it’s an everyday occurrence, but this one is punctuated by the fashion of the dog walker herself.

Santa Fe, New Mexico

Waiting, just waiting.

We see people taking photographs everyday. Fifteen years ago photographers took them with cameras, not phones. In this photo a Japanese tour guide was given cameras by students visiting The Alamo. Again, history provides the context. Besides his own camera, seven others are dangling from his wrist each one belonging to one of the students.

A woman navigating a map of exhibits at a photography convention in San Antonio.

More everyday stuff. On a trip through the South we found ourselves in Jackson, Mississippi, staying at a hotel across the street from the Mississippi State Fair. This young man raised the steer that he proudly displays.

Riding the St. Charles line in New Ørleans. It’s just a photo of a young lady and her boots. What we have are two pairs of legs, that’s all.

We left New Orleans and stopped at Natchez on the same day as the Homecoming Parade. Here are the Natchez High School JV Bulldogs, football players at the beginning of the parade. In the face of #51 is all the bluster, bravado and self-confidence that he will take when he dons his uniform. He’s ready today.

On the street. A homeless man is promised food, but first he must listen to a reading from the Bible.

Two conversations.

One, at a casino in Alabama.

…another in a Berkeley museum.

Two passengers on BART. Seeing these two seated together doesn’t qualify as an everyday event, I know, but because life throws oddball stuff like this at us everyday I love to acknowledge it.

What strikes this American as unique, worthy of a photograph, would be ignored by citizens of Neemrana, India, if they strolled into the local elementary school, seeing students diligently studying in class.

Something beyond the ordinariness often catches my eye—the two very different men sitting together on BART, the western clothes of the Santa Fe dog walker. the wall of postcards, the cheering women at the race track, a hand on the train. And through the lens of time ordinariness becomes extraordinary—the bliss on the face of the Hare Krishna marcher, the dangling cameras suspended by the tour guide, endless waiting.

“You’re always watching,” Jadyne said to me. “I know,” I answered, “I am.” What I’m seeing in these photographs mirrors the very common and totally revealing pieces of what it is that makes up the way I see the world.

A Forgettable Sunday

…that is, if you’re a football fan rooting for the hometown 49ers or the team you’ve followed since they were formed in the late sixties, the Cincinnati Bengals. Six hours, one extra-large, half-baked pepperoni sausage, and mushroom Zachary’s pizza, one bottle of La Crema Chardonnay, a homemade salad, the delightful company of my high school friend Gail Stern, and at the end, two losses. The Niners and the Bengals are going home, and in both cases, wondering where and how it all went wrong.

For the Niners it was immediately obvious. They failed to challenge an incorrect call which led to an Eagles touchdown, and their storybook quarterback Brock Purdy’s first fumble, which caused him to leave the game. led to yet another touchdown. The Niners went through four quarterbacks this season, beginning with Trey Lance, who was injured in the first game, Jimmy Garoppolo, injured shortly after, and in the game yesterday, Brock Purdy. A 36 year old journeyman quarterback took his place in an ignominious performance, left with a concussion, and the show was over. Anger, frustration and penalties all played a part in the overwhelming defeat the 49ers suffered at the hands of the number one seeded team. Yes, they made mistakes, but those weren’t what caused the loss.

In Cincinnati’s loss to Kansas City, it was one mistake, one simple, totally avoidable mistake that ended their season.

Yes, everyone makes mistakes, but the severity of a mistake is magnified if it’s made at the worst possible moment. And Ossai’s was. Game tied at 20-20. Injured Mahomes ran out of bounds with eight seconds left on the clock. Though out of bounds Ossai pushed him down, giving KC another 15 yards, enough to give their kicker a good opportunity for a field goal. He made it. Three seconds left. Game over.

Losing is never easy. When John lost his first soccer game he cried. He had played for more than a year with teams that had never lost a game. He was more shocked than disappointed, thinking unconsciously that losing wasn’t even an option. Much later in his soccer journey he was angry that his high school soccer team lost by a score of 10-0. He said, “It wasn’t the score. My teammates gave up.” In eight years he had learned all that he needed about winning and losing.

Vince Lombardi, the late Green Bay Packers coach, is the source of inspirational quotes about winning and losing. I tried to find one that might apply to Donald John Trump, the former President, but nothing applies. In Lombardi’s quotes, winners are defined by the will to win, the effort, energy, and hard work required to succeed, the dedication to the job, determination, perseverance, self-denial, and sacrifice. “The only place success comes before work is in the dictionary,” he said.

None of Lombardi’s quotes deals with a person who denies that he lost. Even when the evidence is irrefutable. Trump lost the popular vote in 2016 and 2020; his favored candidates in 2022 lost; he was impeached twice, yet he has never accepted responsibility or blame for his mistakes, for having failed. “I am your favorite President,” he has said. He believes his face belongs on Mount Rushmore. He has made countless mistakes, the worst of which have cost lives. His latest Asian racist statements will alienate Asian votes as Trump tries to make himself relevant. He will fail. He will lose. He won’t admit it.

Joseph Ossai will learn from his mistake. His teammates have looked to mistakes they made that might have changed the result. The Niners, I have no idea, what they’ll look back on. Their loss wasn’t as much a case of lack of will, perseverance, or other Lombari-ish aphorisms, but circumstances over which they had no control.

And thinking that we’re in control is the biggest mistake of all.

Reminders

We boomers can’t get through a day without being reminded of how old we are. My friend Stephen Dixon posted this today on Facebook.

And images of teens flummoxed by the impenetrable mystery of a rotary telephone.

Given four minutes to make a call on a working telephone they failed.

Some reminders are gentle. Jadyne laughed when a young lady on a crowded BART train offered me her seat. A year or so later the tables turned. When we ask for senior discounts at movie theaters we aren’t ever “carded.” We’re dismayed, but not surprised, when our musical heroes die. The Killer, Jerry Lee Lewis recently passed. Last week it was Jeff Beck. A few days later it was David Crosby.

This list appeared this morning on Facebook.

24 are older than 76, my age. I was born in 1946, as were Linda Ronstadt and Barry Gibb. 16 are younger.

Paul Simon turns 82 in October. His former partner, Art Garfunkel, follows a month later. And of course, Tony Bennett will never die. Nor will the most famous ageless musician, Keith Richards.

Reminders show up in the difficulty we have in cutting toenails, putting on socks, things we forget, (not always a case of dementia), in the choice of putting up gutter guards so we don’t make the possibly fatal mistake of trying to clean our own gutters, the ladders we no longer use, the stairs we take one at a time, the banisters we hold when we go up and down stairs. We listen to NPR, we watch TV shows which advertise medicines for mesothelioma, COPD, high blood pressure, and watches with apps that will call the police if we can’t. We wear jackets in 70 degree weather, hats outside all the time. We leave both of them behind in restaurants. We post little notes on our glasses and phone cases because we know that we’ll leave them behind somewhere.

I would have hated this little girl.

We’re grateful that we don’t have any friends who would have done this, even if it was possible sixty years ago.

I’m a retired professional photographer. This question is from a currently employed photographer. I have no idea what this is all about.

We read books we’ve already read, sometimes without knowing it until we come across the part that we can recite from memory. Before we go on a trip we spend as much time parsing out our medications as we do packing our clothes. Our children can no longer fall asleep in the car when we’re driving. We’re reminded by the DMV that when our driver’s license expires we'll have to take the written test. And we panic, almost memorizing the pages, as we can’t bear the humiliation of our offspring finding out we failed. We read and ignore articles advising us not to drink. We’ve given up watching the Grammies because we don’t know any of the artists, any of their songs, and we can’t even pronounce their names or understand the words, if in fact, there are words in the songs. We think Tick-Tock has something to do with clocks. We’re reminded that New Year’s Eve really ends at 9pm. We’re aware that the actual passing of minutes and hours takes less time than it used to. When we’re asked, “What great thing happened to you today?” we answer truthfully, “I woke up.”

Marilyn and Griffin

Because we live in the East Bay hills we often have spectacular views of San Francisco and the Golden Gate Bridge. I bookmark a camera view that changes every minute. When the light looks promising I take my camera to one such view two minutes away.

That’s where I took this image.

I often arrive fifteen minutes or so before the image I’m hoping to photograph appears, and more often than not, I return empty-handed. A bank of clouds blocks the sun. All is lost. Not really all, as I love being up there in the late afternoons in winter.

I met a couple there two or three years ago, Marilyn and Griffin. They were out for an evening walk, and we chatted briefly. When I saw them this winter they greeted me. I was pleased that they remembered my name, had visited my website. Marilyn showed me an image that she had taken with her phone from that same place. “That’s lovely,” I said, then offered to make an 8x10 print of it for her. When she picked it up she was pleased and planning to have it framed. I offered to make a 16x20, too. “If you’re going to have it framed, you should have something large enough,” I told her. Here is the original jpeg from her phone. It looks great, framed over her piano, and smaller, in the bedroom.

All with an iPhone

When she picked it up she offered to host Jadyne and me for dinner as a way of thanking me. After bouts of Covid, first us, then her, we managed to all be well last night and had a wonderful dinner with her and Griffin.

I had googled Marilyn and discovered that she had grown up in Cincinnati and had attended Walnut Hills High School. She would have been a senior when I was an eighth grader. An English major, Marilyn received her Ph.D, and taught film studies at Cal until she retired. Griffin is also retired. He, too, is a professor, an anthropologist, but an event happened in 1994 that changed the trajectory of his life.

His fifteen year old son, Kenzo, was visiting a friend who thought the gun was empty.

The boy had removed the clip and didn’t realize that one shell remained in the firing position. Griffin has written a soon-to-be published book titled, “Who Killed Kenzo?”, reminding us that the answer to that question lies far beyond the friend who pulled the trigger.

Griffin’s advocacy to prevent gun violence goes beyond lawsuits against Beretta, the manufacturer of the gun. The New York Times reports the results of the work he’s done himself, and with the Brady Campaign to Prevent Gun Violence.

“And lawmakers are listening.

Last week, for the fourth year in a row, the Brady Campaign to Prevent Gun Violence — the nation’s leading gun safety advocacy group — ranked California first among all 50 states for “laws that can prevent gun violence.” These include requiring background checks, permits and legislation curtailing illegal gun sales.

California received a score of 80 out of 100 points. Arizona, Alaska and Utah received no points in the rankings.”

Posting Griffin’s website below.

…and here’s a link to an Opinion piece Griffin wrote, published by The Progressive Magazine.

A poll conducted in Britain concluded that among the worst things to come out of America, Trump was first, then Americans’ obsession with guns. Trump will soon be gone, but guns won’t. Only through work by such advocates as Griffin Dix can we hope to achieve the small victories that make America a better place to live.

And to answer the question, “What would you serve to people you don’t know?” Marilyn prepared carrots and guacamole appetizer, delicious rice that we smothered with a lemon and olive chicken dish (I had seconds), Bogle white and red wines, finished with pumpkin pie and whipped cream. Only in Kensington.

There’s a sad P.S. to this story. We had dinner three nights ago. Since then a gunman executed eleven people at a ballroom in Monterey Park before killing himself. A few minutes ago a suspect was arrested following two mass shootings near Half Moon Bay, killing seven people. The PS will then be PSS, then PSSS…

Anna

The Anna's hummingbird is a common sight in California. A male and a female live in our neighborhood, and I change the water in our feeder (4 parts water to 1 part sugar) every week or so. The males and the females are about the same size (.1-.2 oz), but the females are most likely the only ones you'll see in a nest. They can be easily distinguished by color. The males have a rose-pink crown and gorget, or throat, which are strongly iridescent. Females have metallic green plumage on their backs and only a tiny red gorget on their throats.

I've been watching our pair for several days. The female frequents the feeder much more than the male, but in photographs, it's no contest. Since it's been raining for the past couple of weeks getting a good image of the male with the iridescent color has been next to impossible.

The sun came out today. They were both hungry.

Phones

From 103 years ago, titled “When we all have pocket telephones.”

A 103 year old cartoon depicted the world as it might be if telephones were everywhere.

Chester Gould, the artist who created the comic book detective Dick Tracy, envisioned the watch/phone/computer decades ago.

In the mid 1980s I was riding with Terry Lindley, a friend who had a car phone, when I asked to use it to call Jadyne. “Jay,” I said, “I’m calling you from Terry Lindley’s car. He has a phone in it!” Amazing stuff. Now this, quality family time.

At first it was a generation thing—the young text, the older ones read newspapers. Now the Boomers probably use them more than Millennials.

If they’re both listening to music in stereo, then who gets just the drums, who gets the lead???

Without our phones how could we get through the day? What would we do while we’re waiting by ourselves, or in line to buy groceries?

Phones help us escape the annoyances of daily life…

…and calm our busy minds.

Cell phones are merely a step along the way. The future will be made up of portable, connected wearable devices. Earrings that double as phones and sunglasses that allow you to surf the web are in the pipeline. The disruption that this kind of immersion will make into the techno-bubble may be unknown now, but not impossible to predict. Boomers like me, who feel lost without our phones, nevertheless look with some trepidation to the future. Airlines are considering allowing passengers to make calls in flight. Thank-you notes are old school. Text is how we communicate. Even emails are so over.

Such a thing as cell phone etiquette falls by the wayside. Mothers walking with their children, checking texts, people engaged in real life person-to-person conversations pause just to check their phones. Couples waiting for food to be served at restaurants prefer their phones to each other, often send a “really important text” before picking up chopsticks, while their Pho steams away.

A psychiatrist, Jon Goldin, had this to say five years ago about children and cell phones. “I’ve used this analogy before, but if I don’t have a pool in my backyard, no one can drown in it. In the same way, if my son doesn’t have social media, he cannot be bullied, humiliated, and belittled on social media. He can’t be obsessed with likes, comments, etc. He can’t feel less than because everyone else’s highlight reels look so fantastic.”

I don’t envy parents who are facing these issues. When presented with such questions, my father, a technophobe, always asked the same question, “How does it bring people together?” That was his bottom line. And should be ours, too.

And a warning embedded in an email. The teacher asked the students to list a wish. This was from the teacher’s child.

The Atmospheric River(s)

After a promising start to the rainy season last year January started and ended in sunshine. As did February. And March. California has been in an exceptional drought for three years, and the usually reliable Farmers Almanac predicted more of the same this year. Something changed. We’ve just emerged from three weeks of wet weather, brought along on the jet stream, which took dead aim at San Francisco sometime in late December. Today it’s dry.

The weather has caused billions of dollars in damage and caused more than twenty deaths. It has also brought ski resorts enough snow, too much snow. Kirkwood has measured 368” of snow this season, more than thirty feet. Of snow. Enough.

For 330 Rugby, rain and hail.

…and wet newspapers…

that focus on the damage. Below is the creek that runs through our property, then through my neighbor’s, then down through Kensington where it dives beneath the Ace Hardware, never to be seen again

Green waste is picked up every week. We have eleven cans. We fill all eleven with redwood branches.

Reservoirs are filling. The snow pack is deep. The extraordinarily dry year we experienced last year isn’t forgotten, but Californians—at least those who weren’t flooded—are breathing a sigh of relief…and flushing their toilets again.

The Evolution of an Image

Some believe that the image their camera records is an unalterable truth. The camera, though, is only a means to an end, which is the final image, living in the mind of the photographer. It’s the hammer for the carpenter, a tool needed to do the work to finish the job.

The camera is compromised by reality, prevented from telling the truth because first, it reduces a three-dimensional world to two. Second, it arrests motion, freezes time. Third, neither film nor flash cards can capture all that the eye sees. A photograph is an abbreviation, the Cliff Notes of reality, a truncated version of what’s actually out there.

For film photographers the darkroom brings out more of what they want to say. Anyone seeing Ansel Adams’ “Moonrise, Hernandez, New Mexico,” would be amazed at the transformation between what Adams saw, what his camera recorded, and what he was able to say in the final print. For digital photographers, software mimics the work in the darkroom.

I’ve using a photo that I took almost five years ago to show how I use software to create a “final print.”

We went to a Pow-Wow in Stockton in 2019. This little girl caught my attention. I liked the image straightaway, as she looked right back at me when I pushed the shutter button. Unedited . Auto exposure, auto focus.

Cropped. No other changes applied.

The Adobe app Lightroom has a feature called “masking,” allowing me to select just the girl and make changes in her. I brightened her without changing any other part of the image.

Lightening her face, her eyes and darkening her outfit on her right arm. These changes are subtle and aren’t easily revealed on a computer screen, but they show up in a print.

I began making changes to her face. (The black mark shows just where I began. Masking isolated the background. I darkened it and threw it softly out of focus.

I darkened the bright hand of the person to the girl’s left. Bright areas take your eye away from the subject. I lightened the sclera (the whites of the eyes), added a little vignette to the edges, then put a black frame around it. The frame changes nothing. Lightroom saves all the “rough drafts” of an image. The frame signifies my satisfaction with the image. As software improves so do final images. I often revisit images and see if I can make them just a little better.

The Subtle Art of Not Giving a F*UCK

After four days and fifteen roll call votes, the newly elected members of the House of Representatives have—and not without drama—elected Kevin McCarthy of Bakersfield as the new speaker of the House of Representatives. The Democrats were present and united for all fifteen votes, selecting Hakeem Jeffries as their choice. While the madness that defines the Republican Party was on display, Katie Porter, a Democrat was reading.

During the final vote Republicans only refrained from physical fights because more sane members restrained less sane members.

Dana Milbank, a contributor to the Washington Post had this to say, “This is what happens when a political party, year after year, systematically destroys the norms and institutions of democracy. This is what happens when those expert at tearing things down are put in charge of governing. The dysfunction has been building over years of government shutdowns, debt-default showdowns and other fabricated crises, and now anti-government Republicans used their new majority to bring the House itself to a halt.”

In no way was this a victory for the Republicans, for the House, for Democracy, or for America. The far-rght members of Congress, more than half of whom were election deniers, who represent only about fifteen percent of all Republicans, have forced the rest of the House to bow to their insanity. Who was one of their most vocal members? None other than Lauren Boebert of Colorado, who failed her high school GED three times, was formerly an escort, and who had multiple abortions in Glenwood Springs. These are the people in charge.

The bomber and the liar.

Hakeem Jeffries, the leader of the Democrats, the man who received 212 votes fifteen times, spoke as the minority speaker. He had this to say, quoted by my friend Anna-Marie Booth.

Ironically, when did all this take place? On January 6th, the second anniversary of the insurrection authored by former president donald j trump, who was present last night on Marjorie Greene’s phone, trying to persuade members to vote for McCarthy, none of whom would take his calls or give a f*uck that he was on the phone.

Taking Stock

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

That New Year's Thing

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

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

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

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

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

Greta

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Christmas Greetings 2022

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

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

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

First World Problems

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

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

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

A first world problem.

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

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

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

The Castro Street Encampment

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

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

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

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

Not a first world problem.

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

Hazel's Christmas Concert

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

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

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

Only seven cameras?

Not everyone was in the Christmas spirit.

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

King of the Wild Frontier

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Born on a mountain top in Tennessee

Greenest state in the Land of the Free,

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

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

Davy—Davy Crockett,

King of the Wild Frontier!