Numbers

Tomorrow I will be 79 years old. If all goes well I’ll sleep close to 7 hours, wake up at approximately 4 am, check the news online, eat 1 banana, a slice of cantaloupe, and 1/2 of a grapefruit. We’ll play Wordle together. (Our current streak is 52 consecutive games won). I’ll drive 9 minutes to 24 Hour Fitness, set the treadmill height to 15, the speed to 3.3, then walk for 30 minutes before the 5 minute cool down, burning off 200 calories or so before changing into my Speedo swimsuit. I’ll walk to the pool and swim 72 laps of 25 yards in (I hope) less than 44 minutes. (I’ll add 7 more laps tomorrow because it’s my birthday, 7/9/2025. It’ll take me 9 minutes to drive home. At that point I will have burned off close to 740 calories, my target every day, one that I usually meet 4 times a week.

Meanwhile, Jadyne will be up, checking her blood sugar. If her level drops below 70 her phone will alert her to take 11 units of her long term insulin, and before breakfast 2 units of short term insulin. She will then wait 15 minutes before breakfast. While I’m swimming she may go out for a walk, hoping that her blood sugar reading will be between 70 and 170 (approximately). .She won’t walk if her blood sugar number is close to 70. She’ll take glucose tablets or a snack of protein and carbohydrates, then wait another 15 minutes. We’ll check her blood sugar readings throughout the day, trying to keep it within the 70-170 range, taking whatever steps we can to bring it within that range. If that means 4 more glucose tablets, then a 15 minute wait, then another check, she’ll do it, maybe having to repeat the 4 tablets, then waiting another 15 minutes. If it’s too high, exercise will bring it down. No numbers involved.

At 5:00 we’ll leave for The Dead Fish, a wonderful seafood restaurant about 30 minutes from home. John and family are in Sacramento, Jennifer and family are in Vietnam, Jason may stop by, either with the kids or without, as Jay and I don’t really know the custody schedule. Except for dinner it will be just another day, and having days at all is present enough.

Fourth of July

Yesterday I had decided that there was little to celebrate. I told Jadyne that I didn’t want the flag up because I was both ashamed and embarrassed by Trump and the kowtowing Republicans who had signed on to kiss Trump’s ass and pass his “Big Beautiful Bill,” a plan that, among other things, removes billions from Medicaid and at the same time reduces the taxes on the very wealthy and adds trillions to the national debt.

I changed my mind. I didn’t want the Republicans to take ownership of the flag. I posted this on Facebook:

The writer Anne Lamott posted this in the Washington Post: “Anyone paying close attention to the news might well ask themselves what on earth there is to celebrate this Fourth of July. But we must celebrate, or they win, in the paranoid sense of “they.” They want the day, but we can’t let them have it. Independence Day is America’s day. Sure, we bleeding-heart nervous cases are teetering on the edge of despair, but that is exactly why I am calling for us to move into a new phase of resistance: hope and joy. In ghastly times, these are subversive.”

Later in the morning Jadyne and I went to a park in El Cerrito where festivities were in full swing. Shortly after we arrived Senator Adam Schiff showed up and spoke to the crowd for a couple of minutes. When he left the stage I followed him. Jay and I corralled him for about five minutes, thanking him for all that he’s done for America. I told him that I wasn’t giving up ownership of the flag to those who desecrate what it stands for, choosing instead to fly it proudly and resist those who didn’t live up to the values that it represents, those who were trashing it, meaning the President and the Republicans in Congress.

Why I Love Donald Trump

I despise Donald Trump, but I read a series of thoughts by a psychologist who’s analyzed why others love him. Here’s what she said:

  1. First, he offers no policies, no plans, no solutions. They don’t love him because he offers answers. They like him because he talks like them, hates and blames the same people, offers revenge over solutions, goes after anyone outside “the MAGA cult,” especially the Press, college students, the elite. He wants to make them pay. It isn’t important what he actually does, only what he represents. He’s a walking, talking, middle finger. A Trumper’s identity merges with his. They identify with him. When you attack him you’re attacking them. There’s a name for that: identity fusion.

  2. Revenge is paramount. Get them back. Kick their ass. Deport them. These are the people who have made it more difficult for the Trump lover. There’s always someone to attack, to blame, to fault, to punish.

  3. “I alone can do it.” I’m a savior. The information fed to MAGA is a closed loop. FOX and other lying media promote what he says is true. MAGA is not permitted to seek alternate information, to believe anything from anyone else, from any other source. If Trump says it, it must be true. Trump said that Iran’s nuclear sites were obliterated. When UN inspectors looked at the damage they determined that they weren’t obliterated, just damaged for some months. So, of course, they were not only wrong, but in promoting facts they were accused of attacking the President.

  4. Double down. For those who have seen or read stories that contradict what Trump has told them they could choose to leave, but they don’t. They’ve invested too much of who they are, what they’ve believed for so many years that they can’t imagine admitting alternate views, alternate information. Instead, they double down on the lies.

  5. Trump has often said, “They’re not after me. They’re after you. I’m just the guy in the middle.” Trump makes them feel seen, not ignored. “You’re not crazy. Everyone else is.” Belonging, identifying with the whole MAGA circus give them a sense of identity. Trump, the savior, gives them that.

Is there an answer? Those on the edge might be swayed by care, by community, by real solutions, not revenge. They’ve heard the lies. They need to hear the truth. Over and over.

Oh, That Silly Old Donald Trump (Again)

Since this will all be a part of history I thought it would be fitting to mention in my blog that a week or so after Israel began pummeling Iran, Trump, exercising his policy of FOMO (Fear of Missing Out), maintained that he would need two weeks to decide whether to bomb Iran or wait for diplomatic channels to open. Hint! He was, as is his custom, lying. He had already decided to send over two B2 bombers with “bunkerbuster” 36,000 lbs of TNT to destroy Iran’s nuclear stockpile. Since Iranians knew this was likely to happen it’s likely that they moved their enriched uranium to some safe haven.

The bomber bombed. Trump used the word “obliterated” to describe what happened. The press was not so sure. Here’s what Trump said in response.

Were the targets obliterated? Trump said it. Leavitt said it (twice). Hegseth said it. It must be true. Unless it isn’t. A classified intel report leaked to CNN suggested that total annihilation actually meant a six month or so temporary setback. No one’s happy at the White House.

And here in a New Yorker cartoon is what everyone knows to be true.

Trump has no plan, no policy, no idea about what to do. He’s opened the proverbial can of worms, Pandora’s box, and the repercussions are already being felt. First to go was Truth Social: “The social media platform Truth Social briefly crashed late Saturday evening after President Donald Trump announced that the United States had “completed” its attack on three Iranian nuclear sites.Users of Truth Social, which the president launched in 2022, began complaining about the website being unusable on X.” Today rockets were launched to a US airbase in Qatar. The fun is just beginning.

And if that wasn’t enough…

Trump demands special prosecutor investigate 'stolen' 2020 election, loss to Biden

Trump cited Biden's poor record at the border and maintained that he won the 2020 election in a landslide

By Michael Dorgan Fox News

The mystery of why 75,000,000 people found this felonious fascist preferable to Kamala Harris will follow me for the next god-knows-how-many years, but follow me it will.

Is America strong enough to withstand this pitiful excuse for a human? And if so, for how long?

The Onion, America’s satirical and prescient publication, took out a full page ad in the NY Times on Sunday. Here it is.

Congress, Now More Than Ever, Our Nation Needs Your Cowardice

Published:

June 20, 2025

Who will stand up for our democracy? This question, fraught in even the most peaceful times, has only grown more pressing as our country approaches its 250th anniversary. Each passing day brings growing assaults on essential liberties like freedom of speech and due process. Meanwhile, our delicately assembled legal system faces a constant barrage of threats. Even as this issue reaches publication, the U.S. military has been deployed against peaceful protestors. We teeter on the brink of collapse into an authoritarian state. That is why, today, The Onion calls upon our lawmakers to sit back and do absolutely nothing.

Members of Congress—now, more than ever, our nation desperately needs your cowardice.

Our republic is a birthright, an exceedingly rare treasure passed down from generation to generation of Americans. It was gained through hard years of bloody resistance and can too easily be lost. Our Founding Fathers, in their abundant wisdom, understood that all it would take was men and women of little courage sitting in the corridors of power and taking zero action as this precious inheritance was stripped away—and that is where we have finally arrived.

Now is not the time for bravery or valor! This is the time for protecting your own hide and lining your pocket. Now is not the time for listening to your idiotic constituents drone on about what’s happening to their precious democracy. This is the time for getting down on all fours and groveling. Now is not the time to say, “Enough is enough,” and have the tough conversations about resisting the ongoing assaults on American liberty. This is the time to let the wave of apathy and indifference roll over you as you think about getting a really nice renovation to your house in Kalorama.

But what can I, one coward, do alone? you might ask. It’s true. As a solitary person, your fecklessness will make little impact. But if you join together with the most craven senators and representatives in the Capitol, the impact will be immense: The corruption, the disregard for the rule of law, the shipping of residents to foreign gulags, the attacks on judges, the censorship and chilling of speech, the punishment of any and all dissent—it can be made that much worse if you just find it in yourself to clutch your head in your hands, wet the bed, and cower in the hope of being spared from the White House’s wrath.

It won’t be easy, but you must search deep within yourself and muster up every ounce of gutlessness you have. Then, bend over and lick the president’s boots.

Why? Because ultimately none of this matters. Democracy? Equality? The U.S. Constitution? These are hollow phrases. They mean nothing. But money—delicious money? That is solid. You can hold it in your hands. You know this. We know this, too. Only our infantile citizenry fail to appreciate how much you stand to gain by kissing the ring.

In our nation’s darkest moments, the public often looks to Congress for profiles in meekness. We search for men and women much like yourselves, emotional weaklings who are afraid to meet their own glance in the mirror, insignificant do-nothings who quake in their boots at the mention of the slightest exertion. Many of you have already distinguished yourselves as such individuals. To them, our country’s oligarchs can only offer their boundless thanks.

Take solace knowing you are not alone in this endeavor. Over the grand expanse of American history, there have been countless lawmakers who managed to summon up their complete lack of backbone and do the easy thing. Think of the members of Congress who turned a blind eye to Japanese American internment, McCarthyism, or the horrors of the Holocaust, all because doing something seemed a little too hard, a little too inconvenient. These men should be your inspiration. Never forget: You stand on the shoulders of spineless giants.

But we have not descended entirely from a nation of fearful men, have we? Let this be the moment to make amends for any missteps of American bravery and valor. Congress, we are asking, nay, demanding: This coming Independence Day, don’t wave the Stars and Stripes, that enduring symbol of liberty and rebellion.

Instead, wave the white flag of surrender.

Tu Stultus Es,
The Onion Editorial Board

No Kings

June 14th, the 79th birthday of Donald Trump and the 250th birthday of the US army. Oh, and the first “No Kings Day,” protests around the world to plead for a return to American democracy. I wrote this letter to explain myself.

“I wanted to explain what I (and the rest of my family) thinks, about why we wouldn’t have missed yesterday.  It isn’t political at all.  We all love America, and we believe that the current administration, under the disguise that they are the true patriots, doesn’t.  

Trump went to a Bastille Day Parade in 2017, loving it so much that he proposed it for himself, a request that was turned down by Congress as an unnecessary and needless expense.  Trump loved this French parade.

Bastille Day, 2017

I think he imagined something like this, with him overlooking a mighty display of power.  It was a coincidence that the army’s deserved celebration was on his birthday, but he made no bones about making it about him.  Paratroopers gave him a folded American flag, only given to family members of deceased.

Trump wanted to show might, but instead, he revealed weakness—in himself, not in the military.  Senator John Kennedy, R. from Louisiana, whose politics I find disagreeable, had this to say (and I paraphrase)…”When you’re a lion everybody knows that you’re the lion.  You don’t need to roar.  When you walk through the jungle every animal knows who you are.”  

By showcasing the military in ways only dictators do, Trump aligned himself with them, in essence revealing weakness.  There were between 50,000 to 100,000 people at the parade. Estimates range from five to eight million at the protests.

Here is a photo from San Francisco:

Jason, Hawthorn, Hazel, Jennifer, Jadyne

Americans who agree with me, who believe what I believe, who feel that their voices are threatened, stood with me.  I wanted to be a part of the “terrible resolve” described by Admiral Yamamoto.

I don’t watch the news as I used to, but what I read or see on TV, frightens me.  It wasn’t a “happy protest day,” but there was no shortage of joy and camaraderie among the hundreds of people in El Cerrito, and from what I’ve seen online, around even red states like Idaho and Louisiana.  An 8 year old girl carried a sign that read, ‘I deserve better.’  We all do.”

A Weekend to Remember

I’ve posted nothing in my blog since Inauguration Day, Jan 20th. It was also a day to honor MLK, far more significant than the coronation.

So what brings me back to the keyboard? Here’s the backstory. Some weeks ago Jadyne had noted that she wasn’t feeling strong. During her runs she walked more than she ran. She’s been sleeping longer, napping more, sometimes twice a day. When she’s awakened she wasn’t refreshed. She’s gone to bed earlier. If our GP weren’t on vacation she would have called.

On Thursday we worked our normal shift at Dorothy Day, stopped at Safeway, then took BART to SF to meet Jay and Laynie for a Giants game. We walked the 1 and 1/2 miles from BART to Oracle Park, took BART home. Jay went straight to bed.

Friday was worse. She spent the day in bed, rousing herself only to go to the Kaiser lab and do blood and urine tests. Later that night David Anderson came over, and after seeing the results, (all normal), concluded that nevertheless she had “something”, an issue that wasn’t going to resolve itself by itself.

At 1:45 yesterday (Friday) morning she couldn’t go to the bathroom by herself. After I helped her I called 9-1-1.

2 am Friday

I followed a half hour later, knowing that I couldn’t see her for an hour or so, that staff would be administering tests, giving her an IV. The EMTs told me that her blood sugar read 450. Normal is 120 or so. The diagnosis came after I arrived—diabetes, most unusual in a seventy year old with no record of heavy sugar intake, no sweets, no sodas, no sugar.

Jay with the bearer of the news

Saturday night in ICU, tended by wonderful caring nurses. When I came to see her yesterday (Sunday) she was feeling better, still weak, and after interminable explanations and demonsrtations about self-care, she was able to get out of bed, and with the nurse’s help, begin walking.

We brought the walker and a cane home, but she didn’t need it to get into the house.

After lunch. Early afternoon. She left.

It’s 5:30, Monday morning. She’s in bed. Stay tuned. Insulin shots and blood sugar tests are right around the corner.

Sunday, June 15th. A distant memory. Jadyne is home in a house full of flowers, learning how to read her blood sugar levels, insert insulin, and eat the new diet. After one and a half hours at the protest yesterday she felt fine, walked an hur today, went shopping, and except for her insulin/blood sugar issues is back to her old self.

Inauguration Day

Not watching anything. It’s Martin Luther King Day, too, a national holiday, one far more consequential than the one going on in the frigid Washington D.C. area. I posted this on Facebook yesterday with the following text:

A portrait photographer would never take a photograph by lowering his main light. That lighting only works on Halloween, or in this case, when you want to look sinister or threatening. Hold a flashlight under your chin in the dark and look in the mirror.  One of the reasons portrait photographers raise their lights above their subject's head is very simple—that's the way the natural world works. The sun is above us. Lights are, too. Deviating from that is unfamiliar to our eyes.  It is unnatural.  When using artificial lights we modify them by having the point source aimed into an umbrella, effectively broadening the source and making it softer.  Moving it closer to the face also softens it.  These are all basic tricks of the trade.  Trump’s photographer didn’t do that.   Many of the comments about the portrait focus on his expression. Lighting is given short shrift. That's a mistake. The photographer asked Trump how he wanted to look in the official portrait, and the collaboration between the two gave us what we see.

 Scary. Fear, those are the words for the next four years.  The photo mirrors his words.

Trump attended a service at the Washington Cathedral on this day. Bishop Budde’s homily:

“Let me make one final plea, Mr. President. Millions have put their trust in you and, as you told the nation yesterday, you have felt the providential hand of a loving God. In the name of our God, I ask you to have mercy upon the people in our country who are scared now. There are gay, lesbian and transgender children in Democratic, Republican, and Independent families, some who fear for their lives. The people who pick our crops and clean our office buildings; who labor in poultry farms and meat packing plants; who wash the dishes after we eat in restaurants and work the night shifts in hospitals. They…may not be citizens or have the proper documentation. But the vast majority of immigrants are not criminals. They pay taxes and are good neighbors. They are faithful members of our churches and mosques, synagogues, gurudwaras and temples. I ask you to have mercy, Mr. President, on those in our communities whose children fear that their parents will be taken away. And that you help those who are fleeing war zones and persecution in their own lands to find compassion and welcome here. Our God teaches us that we are to be merciful to the stranger, for we were all once strangers in this land. May God grant us the strength and courage to honor the dignity of every human being, to speak the truth to one another in love and walk humbly with each other and our God for the good of all people. Good of all people in this nation and the world. Amen”

The predictable response…

And Scotland responds to the Goings-On last Monday in the good ol’ USA.

Not “the horrors we could stumble into” at all. They’re already here.

Graeme

Graeme Vanderstol was one of three white men (I’m another one) to marry into a Chinese family. At least, that’s how Graeme explains it when he’s asked, “How are you and David related?” Graeme was married to Eve, who died about seven years ago. She and Jadyne were first cousins. When we moved to Kensington we would see the two of them two or three times a year. Eve and I had a mutual love for the Beatles. Graeme and I, Apple and Indian music.

We don’t know the cause of Eve’s death. Cancer? As she lay dying I took my guitar to her bedside and played Beatles songs for her. When Graeme hosted a memorial service for Eve he invited musicians from all over the Bay Area to play, some from the San Francisco Symphony Orchestra. I was asked to play “While My Guitar Gently Weeps”, the last public performance that I ever made. And it was a fail. I had practiced it for days, but I couldn’t get through it. I apologized, but for a number of reasons I couldn’t do it.

Lian, Eve’s sister, comforts her a day or two before Eve died. I loved them both. Lian, the eldest of eight, died this past summer. The only one left is Larry, who was a child movie star called “Ducky Louie” and played opposite Anthony Quinn and others. In Back to Bataan Ducky dies in John Wayne’s arms. Larry became a dentist.

Graeme and Eve

Shortly after Eve died we lost touch with Graeme, although he lived nearby. When we reconnected a couple of months ago we learned that since her death he had traveled to Thailand, met a 41 year old kindergarten teacher with two or three children, married her, traveled with her internationally eleven times (so he said), and intended to go back in early December. Here’s Graeme when we reconnected at lunch two months ago.

Graeme at Little Hong Kong.

Not too bad for an eighty-seven year old man. Graeme has always been a traveler. An Australian by birth, Graeme’s love for music and exotic culture led him to India several times, bringing Indian musicians to perform in London.

It was during the sixties and seventies that he met the Beatles, spending Christmas with George Harrison. Paul McCartney came over during the holidays with the tape of Magical Mystery Tour. “Mum, this is Graeme. Graeme, this is my mum. And Graeme, this is my wife Pattie.”

Things change. Since that lunch Graeme went back to Thailand to see his wife, returned, and fell, spraining his hand. He’s unable to drive. In truth, he’s unable to do much of anything. I’ve been recruited, being the only available white guy around, to drive him to doctors’ appointments, one to see his audiologist, one to his dentist, and two to see about his sprained hand, one time to Orinda, another to Alta Bates in Berkeley.

Graeme has suffered a lot since that lunch, and his physical decline is significant, not to mention his forgetfulness and the lack of awareness. Two more appointments that I arranged to take him were on the wrong days. Graeme has a live-in helper from Yuba City who went home for Christmas, so I’ve been on duty several times in the last couple of weeks. Graeme is lonely, too, and although he has neighbors helping out, his mind, if forgetful, is still sharp. He knows stuff.

A week ago. The temperature in the house was fifty-five degrees. Graeme spends his days in bed

The bedroom

Headboard

One of two front rooms

Two of two front rooms

Graeme’s house cannot be navigated safely. Every room is stacked with books, tribal masks, CDs, records, papers, and boxes There is no clear path, no place to sit. If one could find a chair it would be covered with stacks of things. Even the kitchen has piles of papers and items that have no business being in a kitchen.

Graeme emailed me today, asking if I was around could I please stop by for a minute or two. I called him. He didn’t need any help. I didn’t go today. I’ll be checking again tomorrow.

Ticket to Ride

For the second time in 2024 Jadyne and I climbed aboard the Amtrak ”Zephyr",” (a name that should require quotation marks), and prepared ourselves for the next 26 hours as we “hurtled” across America, through the Sierra, Nevada, Utah, and finally our destination, Glenwood Springs, more affectionately known as “Spgs” after the notation on the road signs.

It was a short stay, just three days, as we’re not “snow people”, and we really just wanted to touch base with Greg and Sean. We did.

We had been coming to Glenwood Springs since Teeny moved there sometime in the mid seventies. We know the town well. Businesses come and go, construction is ever present. Tourists flock there. It’s a place for skiers and snowboarders, too, cheaper digs than Aspen or Vail.

The visit. Greg and Sean showed me this photograph.

The 20 x 24” framed photograph of Teeny which hung at the entrance to the Emergency Room at the hospital for the past thirty-seven years. Greg was wandering through a room in the hospital where piles of discarded items from the hospital were stored. “What are you doing with this?” Greg asked the employee. “Don’t know,” was the reply, “probably going to the junkyard.” Greg took the print home and hung it above their stairway. Thirty-seven years. Teeny’s memorial service drew hundreds. Now no one remembers who she was, that she was Greg’s sister, that if the hospital wasn’t interested in remembering her anymore, perhaps her brother might like to have the image. Ya think?

In my 78th year I realize that thirty-seven years after I pass, there might be a few who remember. Jason will be closing in on ninety. Time does what time does. Dust to dust.

I hung out on Greg and Sean’s front porch, watching the avian visitors.

Stellar Jay

Not an avian

Return of the avians

Magpie

Magpie

It was a lovely three days. One Chinese dinner, one evening at a Vaudeville performance in Spgs, one home-cooked prime rib, and one extraordinary dinner at New Castle, where an Aspen chef is just one critic’s approval away from a Michelin star. (IMHO).

The Platter at the Pig and Duck. Words fail. Worth 26 hours on the train just for that.

I wandered around taking images of ice crystals in three week old snow.

Greg, Toby, and Sean

It was cold when I went out to photograph ice crystals, so I put on a wool hat, which covered my ears. When I returned I noticed that I was missing one hearing aid. With three sets of eyes we climbed the hill where I had been and looked in vain for the hearing aid. I gave up, called Costco, discovered what I had to do to replace it. The next day I took one more trip up the gravel, asphalt, and dirt road, and voila! After a recharge all was well.

Greg thought that three days was too short for our visit. I replied, “The train trip is a vacation, too.” We love long train trips.

Someone paid for two seats.

An unexpected stop in Western Colorado

Grand Junction, CO

Downtown Nevada

We paid $388 for two round-trip tickets to Glenwood Springs. Coach passengers have to pay for their own food. Sleeping car passengers don’t. However, we coach passengers get to sleep on the extraordinarily comfortable coach seats which allow us to twist our bodies into positions that would excite a yoga teacher. This passenger enjoyed it more because he could twist into two seats. We had to twist into one.

Nevada

Passing freight. The freight lines own the tracks and Amtrak trains pull off on sidings until they pass.

Amazon sunrise, Nevada

Reno

Just East of Truckee

West of Donner Pass.

Now the train. We boarded at 8:30 am in Richmond, then disembarked at 12:30 in Glenwood Springs. I spent several hours with Henry, pictured on the right, talking about the Amish. Henry, his wife Lydia (pictured left) and his son Eli, wouldn’t let me take their photograph. “It’s not something we do,” Henry said. We talked a lot. I told him about the Sierra Nevada mountain range, the Donner party, California, and what my life was about. He told me about his, too. Henry is 28. He and Lydia speak English, but their son Eli doesn’t. They speak Pennsylvania Dutch with him, just as they do with other Amish. Henry and his friends were returning from working at a medical mission in Tijuana. I smiled, thinking what a great movie it would make, “The Amish in Tijuana,” Like other Amish. Henry’s education stopped at eighth grade. He believes in God, Jesus, the Bible, the creation story, and takes it all literally. He has no phone, no internet, no car, doesn’t drive, and, if I’m right, wouldn’t mind having one or all of them. On the second day I hoped he might relent and allow me to do a family portrait. He does have a mailing address. I suspected that his faith was stronger than my persuasion. It was a slam dunk. I lost.

Lydia and Henry

I talked to Howard, a retired Waldorf teacher who writes childrens’ books. “What’s the deal with immunizations?” I asked him, noting that Waldorf students have an immunization rate about half of the general public. “We believe that the body creates its own immunization,” he said, “and it can protect itself by itself. I’ve been vaccinated against Covid,” he said, that Waldorf familes don’t ignore all vaccinations”..

Howard’s gave us two of his books.

I talked to Jan. A Syracuse attorney, he was traveling across America, then flying to Hawaii where his daughter, much to his chagrin, married a native Hawaiian on Oahu. He was reading a book about indigenous people, their beliefs, all in hope of understanding. He wondered whether he should underline important passages. I suggested that that might appear to be lecturing, something that his new son-in-law might not appreciate. He agreed.

And then we were in Colfax, along with this lady. Roseville, Sacramento, Martinez, and Richmond still to go.

Dumbth

RANT (NOT A POLITCAL POST)

Like the Donald, I'm using all caps here to amplify a thought. When 2016 came and the Donald became president I was dismayed to discover that so many Americans thought in ways different from the way I thought. The passing of eight years not only confirmed it, but I continue to be amazed at something for which my wife and I have coined a new word- "DUMBTH."

As a photographer I was dismayed when dumbth invaded my field. Look at the first image that I found on Facebook. It has 12,800 "Likes" as of this morning. Hundreds of comments followed the image, nearly all of which praised the lovely colors, claiming that the image was proof of God's work in this world.

META added the words in the second photo. Despite the overwhelming number of comments from those who loved the "photograph," META added, "...some critics argue the image appears enhanced and artificial, sparking a debate about the authenticity of the photo."

"Appears to be enhanced? Artificial?" Ya think???????

DUMBTH is a good word to know. You'll find it creep into almost all your conversations...

Fifteen minutes later this appeared on my Facebook feed…

Same number of comments praising the “photograph.” Is someone pulling my leg?

Atmospheric River Dining

Last Wednesday the North Bay was struck by an “atmospheric river,” as bands of rain, one after another, pummeled California. The river overflowed its banks and struck the Bay Area on Thursday and Friday. Thursday we served 125 breakfasts at Dorothy Day Shelter, to the homeless…and the very wet.

One of three pre-Covid patrons.

No one knows his name. He’s been coming to Dorothy Day ever since Jadyne and I began volunteering, a couple of years before Covid. For the first few years we thought he was mute. He never spoke. He indicated that he wanted two of everything—two boxes, two cups of black coffee, two containers of oatmeal, and two extra doughnuts, by pointing with his fingers. If anything went wrong, he became visibly angry. After Covid everything changed. He can speak, and he’s polite.

Our second pre-Covid patron.

Another old-timer. I photographed him years ago with his Abercrombie and Fitch sweatshirt. Again, unfailingly polite and humble. I don’t know his name, either. He’s stooped and hunched over now, more than I remember, no doubt compounded by substandard living situations. How many of our patrons actually live on the street I don’t know, but I suspect that most of them do.

Patron wearing a “raincoat.” We have clothes to give away, but not many raincoasts.

Patrons line up at 8:30 (some come earlier), then are admitted on wet days inside. We try not to keep them waiting any longer than we can, although some deliberate over which extra doughnut to choose, whether they want grits or oatmeal, or how many packets of sugar we’re willing to give them. Some ask for ten.

Mary Ann and Matthew. Mary Ann is one of the four Thursday volunteers. She knows many of the regulars, like Matthew, who had a lovely little harp that was stolen. We passed the hat. Matthew has a new harp.

Three and a half inches of rain, cold temperatures, and no complaints. Many express gratitude.

David Cesmat

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

David Cesmat

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

Epic Climbs.info

On the Way Up David Reads the Tire

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

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

David reaches the “easier” part of Moeser.

It’s not a sprint.

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

Do Americans Know What They've Gotten Themselves Into?

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

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

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

This could have been me on Wednesday.

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

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

The Next Day

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

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

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


Up Close

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

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

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

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

Closing in on an orchid.

The beautiful symmetry of a columbine.

And the skeleton of a leaf…

Ladybugs making more ladybugs

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

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

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

Not For Sissies

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

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

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

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

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

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

Something about those “Golden Years”

September 5

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Just trying to get well.

Incarcerated

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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


Unavoidable

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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