One Inch

We've all heard the term, "a game of inches."  In New York drawing flood maps is a "game of inches".  As FEMA revises the maps to account for climate change, deciding who is in the flood zone will be a battle with millions of dollars at stake.  In the Miami Open Roger Federer is "undefeated in the game of inches.  He clipped lines and found hair's breadth passing lanes to outlast a player blessed with greater youth and firepower."  And from Baseball Magazine, "Every sport is a game of inches. An inch can separate an incomplete pass from a reception, or a first down. How about that putt that stops right on the lip of the hole? In soccer, lacrosse, or hockey, a shot that hits the pipe or cross bar, rather than going into the goal, sometimes that’s just an inch as well.  And then there is that jump shot that circles the rim, endlessly spinning within the perimeter of the basket, or perhaps bouncing above it, and you are watching in agony, wondering if it will fall in or turn into a rebound?"

Sadly, for the first time in my adult life I've discovered that my weight is also a "game of inches."  And where the putt dropped, the pass was completed, the ball hit the top of the fence and bounced into the stands, my inch has brought me only despair.

BMI is an acronym for "Body Mass Index", perhaps the truest measure of the effects of poundage on the human frame.  BMI measures body fat based on height and weight that applies to adult men and women.  It measures the body weight in kilograms divided by the height in meters.  It isn't perfect.  Two people might have the same BMI, but one of the two might have more muscle and be more fit than the other.  Other techniques—MRI, glucose levels, calipers, hydrostatic weighing, blood pressure, and measuring waist-to-hip ratio, offer a precision that BMI can't.  And of course there's always "dual-energy X-ray absorptionmetry" (?)  And bone density?  Jadyne was told by her swim coach in high school that she had "dense bones and heavy muscles."  Of course BMI doesn't measure that at all.

Here's the BMI table:

I like it for the pretty colors.

Here's a BMI calculator.  I've entered my height (5'6") and my weight (157 lbs.) into the table, and this is the result"

I thought that I was really 5' 6 and 1/2", and maybe at one time I was.  I've definitely lost that 1/2 inch though, as the years have accumulated.

I wondered how I might have fared had I been one inch taller.  Here's that table.

According to the pretty chart my BMI would be "normal."  Yeah, at the very tippy-top of the "normal" range, but nevertheless "normal."  So here's my choice.  Either I can try to lose about seven pounds, which means fewer Kettle chips, less Chilean Malbec, only a handful of pistachios rather than the full cereal bowl I have almost every night, no butter on the popcorn, and staying away from Graeter's salted caramel ice cream....or, I can try to grow.  Just one inch.

Which is more realistic?  Lose about seven pounds or grow an inch?  It's only an inch.  Just one.  One frigging inch.  Just because we tend to grow the most in our youth does that mean that we stop growing in our seventies?  I've found some tips online that I think might help from "Grow Taller 4 Idiots."  I am that.

1)  "Breathing is very important when you are trying to grow an extra inch or two."  Noted.

2) "While getting plenty of sun helps plants to grow, it does the same for the human body."  Got it.

3) "Working out can help your body grow taller and at the same time keep you in better health." I do that.

4) "Drinking plenty of water is excellent if you are trying to grow taller." OK.

5)  "Massage is an excellent choice when trying to grow taller." Need to work on that.

6)  Maintaining proper posture is bery important when trying to appear taller." "Appear" is the operative word here.  Not helpful.

7)  "Avoiding drugs, alcohol, and nicotine is important if you want your body to grow."  Two of three isn't bad.

8)  "If growing taller is your goal, you should follow the above steps and be patient.  None of this will happen overnight." It is.  I do. I try to be. 

Stay with me.  I'll keep you posted.

1980

When I left Room 6 at Cardinal Newman HS in 1980 I had hoped that I could find a way to make a living in photography.  I had three more months of my yearly salary of $14,000 coming to pay the summer’s bills—the mortgage, food, and the care of three children.  I had nothing in savings, and the three months I had off from school represented my first opportunity to find work that could sustain us.

I had two irons in the fire, though.  The first was the senior portrait contract for Cardinal Newman and Ursuline High Schools.  I was able to persuade Bill Finn, the principal of Cardinal Newman, to grant me the opportunity to photograph the upcoming senior class.  Although I had no studio at that time, no lights, and little experience, I was able to turn window light at the school in one of the rooms into something that would allow me to make passable images.

The second iron never went into the fire.  Bob Moratto, a real estate mogul and parent, proposed to pay Jadyne and me salaries for five years while we mucked around trying to find a way to make an income.  At the end of those five years we could have the business appraised, and we could buy him out for half.  Five years of salaries and security were a welcome invitation, but after my attorney friend John Kemp wrote a twenty-two page partnership agreement I took it to Bob, thanked him, and told him that I couldn’t accept it.  If I did, I knew, I never would have known if I could have made it myself.  So, I threw that iron away.

This left me struggling for ways to make a living.  I had a couple of weddings on the books.  I photographed a corpse for a mother who had no photographs of her son.  I did a real estate brochure for which I had to go to small claims court to get paid.  I imagined that I could take my best art images, frame them, then sell them to interior designers or furniture stores.  I applied to work for Larry Simons, a Santa Rosa architect whose work I admired.  I failed miserably at everything.  I have said many times that “if I knew how little I knew I never would have tried at all.”  I wasn’t desperate.  Yet.

But one thing did work for me.  Through a connection I discovered that  Judi Allum,  a woman who ran a ballet school in San Leandro, a former dancer herself with the San Francisco Ballet, was looking for someone to photograph her students.  I got the job.  By then I had lights and a long roll camera back.  I knew how to take strobe light readings, and although I had no experience with ballet, I was only required to push a button once Miss Judi had posed the girls correctly.  We spent two weekends in her studio, photographing little girls.  I bought a giant wicker peacock chair as a prop.  Miss Judy did all the rest.  We were both pleased with the results. 

But Miss Judi had other plans.  For the better dancers, the more experienced girls, the ones who might have a future in ballet, Miss Judi wanted to take them outside and have me photograph them in a place where they would look so pretty—gardens, the Palace of Fine Arts, places in and around San Francisco where the costumes, the poses, and the attractive girls could show off. 

I had a different idea.  Beautiful flowers wouldn’t set off the beauty of the dancers.  But junkyards do.  I was looking for contrast.  I  tried to think of places to photograph the girls where the sets were at the opposite end of the beauty spectrum.  My first stop was Fort Point, a Civil War fort underneath the south tower of the Golden Gate Bridge.  It was there that I took Denise.

Fifteen seconds later the sunlight flooded the area, and the image would have been lost.

I loved this image.  I thought that Miss Judi would love it, too.  When I showed her the 4x5 proofs of all the photographs I had taken that day she passed it up in a split-second.  I was puzzled.  " I really like this image," I said.  "Don't you?"  She said, "She's on flat".  Ballerinas, I learned, only look like ballerinas when they're on point.  I understood.  I also knew that it was a fabulous image regardless, and I submitted it to a magazine sponsored photo contest with a grand prize of a trip to Hawaii.  I won.  And we arrived in Honolulu one day before the biggest hurricane in fifty years.  The magazine folded with that issue.  But that's another story.

I did take the girls to the Palace of Fine Arts, built for the San Francisco 1919 Exhibition.  Here's an image from that shoot.

The girls were game for anything I wanted them to do. Judy, more reluctant at first, obliged.

The next year I discovered that an MGM movie location scout had built an entire Western village on his property near Sebastopol.  He had filled it with movie memorabilia that he had collected over decades of work.  Here are Denise and Jeannette with the wagon that Clark Gable drove Vivien Leigh in in "Gone With the Wind."

Not your traditional ballet image.

I kept thinking about contrasts.  My last images (and alas, I saved none with the girls) were taken in a blacksmith's shop in San Francisco.  If I didn't save the images of the ballerinas, I had enough sense to photograph the blacksmith himself.

Where would I have gone next?  A Hell's Angels rally?  I ran out of gas.  By this time my business was thriving, and I left Miss Judi's employ and Los Ayres, her studio.  Photographing the dancers  away from the artifice of lights and backgrounds gave me a much needed foundation for location portraiture. 

It''s been almost forty years.  Los Ayres is closed.  Denise, the dancer in the archway, is nearing 60.  Miss Judi, 74, has remarried and lives in San Ramon.  And me?  I'm using this blog to send Father Finn, Bob Moratto, and Miss Judi belated thank yous for believing in me.

One Year Later.

February 25, 2019. Monday afternoon. On Thursday I received a text through Facebook from one of the dancers. She said that Judi’s memory had left her, that she’d had several falls, and that she spent the last couple of years in a memory care unit. Judi died Friday morning, and her son put up a FB post in her name. Former students have put up both testimonials to Miss Judi and photographs of themselves in costume. Her son Michael posted a three minute video of Miss Judi taken last year in the memory care unit. As patients walked by in their walkers and wheelchairs Miss Judi watched Julie Andrews in The Sound of Music. And as the story unfolded on the television Miss Judi did what she had done all her life. She danced.

Once a dancer…

March 17th. Yesterday was the memorial service for Miss Judi, a two hour event at the Crosswinds Church in Livermore, punctuated by videos, testimonials, and tears.

Handing out programs

A commemorative dance

The program. For me it was coming full circle.

The three people who made it possible for me to succeed in photography, Fr. Bill Finn, Bob Moratto, and now Judi Allum, have all passed.

Scott and Beth

Jadyne and I, both avid bridge players, left Santa Rosa fourteen years ago to a relatively unfamiliar community, the East Bay.  In addition to searching for competent plumbers, hardware stores, groceries, restaurants, good pizza, and the like, we needed to fill the hole in our card-playing life previously occupied by weekly bridge games with North Bay friends.

We found that the Berkeley Jewish Community Center sponsored weekly bridge games, and we joined.  It was there that we met Scott and Beth Wachenheim, a couple who had lived in a central coast area in an equine community that one of their horses came from originally and loved.  He (the horse) convinced them to escape Lafayette which was changing too fast.  Scott and Beth were former teachers, who had taken up residence in Berkeley and were on the same mission as we were.

Dissatisfied with the poor play at the JCC, we four broke away from the weekly bridge nights there and began our own four person bridge nights, alternating between their Creston Avenue home in Berkeley and ours on Rugby Avenue in Kensington.  We became more than bridge partners, enjoying each others’ company for dinners, sharing mutual interests, talking about our children and grandchildren, and celebrating special occasions.

We were pleased to join them for their seventieth birthdays at Greens, a vegetarian restaurant at Fort Mason, San Francisco.

Scott is sitting second from left, looking away from the camera, and Beth is in maroon, just left of center.

Scott has Parkinson’s disease.  In the ten years or so that we have known them we have also noticed a small decline in his physical condition.  They used to travel extensively, many times with their grandson Dakota.  Those days, we suspect, may be coming to an end.  Scott also has “restless legs syndrome”, and the hot tub that they had on Creston Avenue was a source of relief and comfort to him.  Last year Scott’s infirmities prompted them to leave Berkeley and move to Rossmoor in Lafayette, a huge retirement community with a golf course, restaurant, swimming pools, daily club meetings, exercise programs. In a sign of the changing times Rossmore even hosts a “Cannabis Club.  No more gardening, no more house maintenance, it’s all taken care of for them.

In an earlier life they both taught elementary school.  In an earlier life, too, they created a business in Lafayette in the middle seventies that was designed to lose money for seven years so that they wouldn't have to pay taxes, money that would have gone to support a very unpopular war.  In an earlier life they were also both avid equestrians, having ridden the Pony Express route, a twenty-four hour distance run {The Tevis endurance race, a precursor to the human version), officially called "The Western States 100 Championship", riding in Escalante and Torrey. In Scott's words, "we rode Valour and Ria up Boulder Mountain, although several champion horses ahead of us tried to turn around dangerously, but we finished the fifty miler of that day and went on to complete the three day ride." They’ve ridden through the desolation of Nevada, and through a large part of the United States.  We asked about Scott’s Parkinson’s disease.  “How did you discover it?” Scott added, "Dansky, a  female, asked why I was no longer using my left leg to cue her.  She wanted a correction. She wanted me to continue skillfully to ride her.  She begged me not to quit, saying she'd be good and not give me trouble."  Puzzled, we asked Beth to explain.  “She told me that Scott couldn’t ride her any longer, that he was physically unable to manage her.”  Nonplussed, we searched for an explanation.  “She told you?” we questioned.  “Yes,” she answered.

This didn’t surprise us.  Earlier we had teamed up to buy a case of homemade salad dressing from one of Jadyne’s sister-in-law’s friends in Colorado.  When Beth’s check was lost, she said, “I should have waited.”  “Why?” we asked.  She answered, “Because Mercury is in retrograde.”  “Uh-huh”, we both thought, exchanging glances.  We pretended that we knew what that was all about.  When we returned home we went to Wikipedia.  You don’t conduct business when Mercury is in retrograde.  That, we discovered, was why the check was lost.

I asked Scott to edit my blog for accuracy.   He wrote, "We are honored that you would find us people of importance in your life.  And yes, Beth's belief system isn't quite standard.  Scott's is possibly unstandard also."

Scott and Beth introduced us to AJ Lee and the Tuttles at another of their parties:

Entranced by the incredible skill of these musicians I went to see them at Berkeley’s Freight and Salvage and promptly fell in love with Molly Tuttle, the oldest “child” in this musical family.  She was twenty-three, and I was sixty-eight.  I was married; she's single.  She's one of the finest acoustic guitar players in the country.  I suck.  It was a relationship doomed from the start.

We had dinner last night with Scott and Beth at the appropriately named "Chow" in Lafayette, chosen by Scott and Beth because of the good "vibe" and because all foods are organic and locally sourced.  (They turned up their noses one time when we told them we were going to Sizzler.)  Chow was no Sizzler.  "Thank you," Scott said at the end of the evening, "for not abandoning us."  Rossmoor is about forty-five minutes away, an inconvenient drive, and we won't see them as often as we did when they lived in Berkeley, but we won't abandon them.  We don't abandon friends.

May 9, 2021. Scott died. Beth emailed us three days later. “He’s sent signs that he is well,” she wrote.

Eve 2.0

Yesterday was Eve's life celebration at the Hillside Club in Berkeley.  By 1:20 Graeme took the microphone, welcomed the hundred and sixty or so guests, and began what turned out to be a most unusual ceremony, one filled mostly with musical performances, all punctuated by reminisces and testimonials.  Eve worked at the Berkeley Art Museum and there was no shortage of kind words about her delivered by the director and her friend Julia, also a worker there.  But in between the kind words Graeme wanted the guests to know what brought him and Eve together—a mutual love of Indian music, recorded on a CD and played through loudspeakers and Chinese opera music, performed by a singer/dancer on stage.

The love of Indian music was what brought Graeme to London, as he produced hundreds of shows featuring Indian musicians, among them the famous sitar player, Ravi Shankar. It was the love of Indian music, too, by the Beatles' guitar player, George Harrison, who invited Graeme to his house on Christmas Eve.  "Graeme, this is Patty, and this is my mum."

But it was the love of the Beatles that brought Eve and me together.  I sat by her bedside on New Year's Eve and tried to play all the Beatles songs I knew by heart.  She whispered to Graeme, "Play While My Guitar Gently Weeps", the last words we heard from her.  It was natural then, for Graeme to ask me to play that again at Eve's service yesterday.  I practiced for two weeks, put on fresh strings, polished the spruce soundboard, and then, after the opera performer finished, I brought over the microphone, a little stool, my step, and last, my beautifully polished, recently restrung Martin D42.  "I'm the second white guy in this family," I said, "marrying even before Graeme and Eve.  My wife Jadyne's father Henry was Eve's mother's younger brother."  I then told those assembled  that in Eve's honor I would like to play "While My Guitar Gently Weeps." 

The first two or three seconds went okay, but as mistake after mistake piled up, I stopped and apologized.  "I'm sorry," I saId, "I'm just a bit nervous."  I started again, but unlike the ice skaters who fall, get up, then continue their program, I made even more grievous mistakes.  "I'm sorry," I said again, "but I can't really do this."  People applauded.  I turned red.  I put my guitar back on the stand, climbed down the steps, then sat down beside Jadyne.  I closed my eyes.  The program continued. I looked longingly at the door, barely three steps away.

I had given my phone to Jadyne.  Since she was sitting in the front I thought that it would be a nice memory if she would take a couple photographs of me.  She did.  Or, at least she tried.  She took two photographs of the floor at her feet.  We all make mistakes.

More speeches.  More music.  A pianist played two pieces.  A May concert dedicated to Eve was announced.  Two violinists, one from the SF Symphony, and a friend who flew over from Germany played.  More piano.  More speeches.

The final two pieces were by three symphony members—a violinist, a violist, and a cellist.

I couldn't wait for the service to end.  I wanted out.  Finally, as all came to an end I rose, picked up my guitar, and was met by two very kind people, each of whom expressed their appreciation for my efforts, that in my words and emotions I revealed how personal and important it was to me.  I thanked them, then came home.

Last night I wrote this:

"We learn so much about ourselves...I have been practicing "While My Guitar Gently Weeps" for some time now...I made a few efforts to play it yesterday before recording it and posting it on YouTube...I went to Eve's service today...there were a hundred people there...many professional musicians...I was fine until I got on stage...I told anecdotes about how Eve and I related about several things, but mostly the Beatles...I told them about sitting by her bedside, playing one song after another, and how her last words to us were, "Play While My Guitar Gently Weeps."...I then tried to play it...I couldn't...I played the first few seconds or so very badly, then tried to start over...a few seconds later I told every I couldn't do it...I couldn't do it...I was both too emotional and too nervous..I left the stage and sat down next to Jadyne...I closed my eyes and listened to the rest of the service, some remembrances, three pieces by a concert pianist, a duet by two members of the SF symphony, then a two-pat finale by three more from the symphony—a violinist, a cellist, and a violist...two people thanked me afterwards for the effort, recognizing that not only was I not a professional musician, but that they saws that within my stories a connection something that was missing in the other pie"ces by the other musicians...I was embarrassed...I'm okay now...we never stop learning."

This morning I wrote Graeme a letter:

"You arranged and put on a lovely service for Eve yesterday, and I was very touched to have been included.  Obviously, I was disappointed not to have been able to perform the song.  From my performance you wouldn’t have guessed that I had practiced quite some time, even recording it on YouTube on Saturday.  I hadn’t played in front of more than one or two friends in forty years, and I had no idea that I would be unable to do so yesterday.

But this wasn’t about me.  It was about Eve, your love for each other, and the many connections, both spoken and performed, by those who have meant so much to both of you.  If we get can get away from my “unperformance" and focus on something that I hoped you and the other guests recognized—that both of you are dear to me and Jadyne, and that we feel Eve’s loss ourselves while we continue to feel for you, too."

He wrote back...

"Darrin our remodeling assistant, and who helped in clearing out my office for the hospital bed, phoned last evening and we both agreed that your performance was so real, and emphasizes the human side of yesterday. If your performance had been perfect it would not have been the same. I am sure most felt the same."

Whew.

Graeme concluded, referring to George Harrison, Eve, Indian music, and all..."Thanks for the touching comments. Darrin who had set up the chairs for the expected 150 from RSVPs, said at least 160 came. The two sons of Ali Akbar Khan and their mother surprised me because I knew their younger sister was about to go into labor. Eve and I remember when daughter Medina was about four, her coming at stage at the large Marin Center to crowning her father king. He was the last living famous court musicians. Yesterday they asked what favourite ragas Eve had ... for the May 25 concert at BAMPFA. And I said if George had not given the burst of interest in Indian music here in 1966, literally none of us would we have be here. Their mother would never have met their father and me Eve. True karma."

True karma, indeed.

Government in Action

On Thursday, January 25th, 2018 I headed out to the Eisenberg Crane Preserve, an ecological wonderland about twenty-four miles north of Lodi, California, and about forty-five miles south of Sacramento.  This crane preserve is the winter home of sandhill cranes, who leave the meadows, fields, and lakes at dawn, flying to who knows where, then return at dusk. 

The sandhill crane, or "Grus canadensis" lives an average of twenty years in the wild, weighs between 6.5 and 14 lbs, and has a wingspan of 5-6 feet.  I was there with my Nikon D850 and my 200-500 mm lens, hoping to see and photograph their return in the cold sunny Thursday afternoon.  When I arrived at the viewing area a sign posted that it was essential that all visitors have on their person a license granting them permission to be in the viewing area of the preserve.  I had no such thing. 

I called California Fish and Game.  A friendly operator answered the phone, and I explained my situation.  "I'm not looking for a lifetime pass or even a year pass," I pleaded.  "I'm only going to be here for another couple of hours, and I don't want a docent or an official to kick me out," I wailed.  She said, "I can do that.  I can make a one-day pass for you that you can show."  Relieved, I waited while she asked me...Name, address, cell phone number, land line number, birthday, height, weight, color of eyes, email address, alternate email address, name of spouse, spouse''s  name, spouse's phone number, car make, model, license number, and other obviously relevant information so she can issue to someone who simply wants to take a few photographs of sandhill cranes a #$* permit.  Meanwhile, as I'm talking to her the cranes are beginning to return.  Useless camera in one hand.  Useless phone in other.

I gave her a valid VISA number, paid the $4.32 to California Fish and Game, and in return she  gave me a number that I could show a docent or guide that proved that I was a valid permittee at the Eisenberg Crane Preserve.  I thanked her and resumed my position by the bench at the top of a little mound. 

As the sun set to the right of Mount Diablo I caught several images of the cranes as they returned for the night, perhaps twenty or more in all,  Fortunately they congregated close to where I stood, and with the help of a powerful lens I was able to capture some memorable images.

As dusk settled in and darkness fell, I put my camera away and climbed back into my car.  My pass and permit number remained safely in my pants.  I was the only one there.

Monday, January 29th.  Today my one day pass for last Thursday arrived.  I photographed it and posted it at the top of this blog entry.  Thank you Fish and Game.  Happy to help.

Pearl's Fiftieth

it's 1978.  I'm the English Department Chairman at Cardinal Newman High School in Santa Rosa, California.  I'm making less than $14,000 dollars a year.  I have two very small children, a third on the way, and I own a house.  My wife is a credentialed elementary school teacher, but has been a full-time mother for the past four years, is pregnant again, and has little or no prospects for making money before the $1000 a month or so that I'm making evaporates.  What to do?

I live in California where real estate is a hot commodity.  I enroll in a real estate class for maybe $250 or so and head out in the evenings to a cramped room upstairs in the Coddingtown Mall where I pour over the most boring books and papers I've ever had in front of me, more boring even than 9th graders' essays.  After a few weeks I stop going.  I can't do this.  I can't be a real estate agent.  Now what?

Someone tells me about Bridal Bells.  It's a wedding mill.  Brides who don't have a preference for a wedding photographer go to Bridal Bells, sign a contract, and Bridal Bells dishes out the film, directions, and information to a camera-for-hire gunslinger who is willing to spend six hours or so of his Saturday, receiving a bounty of $50 for his services.  No matter that many of the for-rent photographers have never photographed a wedding before.  If they are willing to fork out enough money to buy a medium format camera they look the part.  My mother advanced me $2500 of my future inheritance, so armed with my new Mamiya 645, three lenses and a flash, I soon became a member of Bridal Bells' staff.  I pick up my assignment early in the week, call the bride, ask directions, then head out on Saturday for my first gig as a "professional photographer."

I remember several moments from these first weddings.  One reception was held at the Sonoma County Fairgrounds, and I stood with the mother of the bride as the happy couple cut the cake.  The bride sliced the cake, then gently fed her new husband a small piece.  He then cut a much larger slice, wrapped one of his big arms around the bride's neck, then ground the cake into her face.  The mother turned to me, "He's quite a spirited young buck!" she said.  "This marriage hasn't got a chance," I thought, "what an asshole.".

A few weeks later I picked up my new assignment and drove to the bride's house, opened the door, and was met by Pearl.  Not just Pearl, but by her two sisters, her four daughters, and her three granddaughters.  You see, Pearl had been married in 1928, and to celebrate her fiftieth anniversary, she and her husband chose to recreate that moment in 1978.  One sister, dressed in pink, was her maid of honor in 1928; another, in blue, was a bridesmaid.  The others weren't around in 1928, but they were happy to be a part of Pearl's Wedding 2.0.

When you worked at Bridal Bells you surrendered your film after the wedding.  I knew that this image was both unusual and special, so I asked for the negative just long enough to make this print.  I entered it in a juried art show, and Gaye LeBaron, the Santa Rosa equivalent of San Francisco's Herb Caen, mentioned that it was one of her favorite pieces.  It's one of mine, too, forty years later.

Eve

New Year's Eve

Jadyne and I spent the last four hours with Graeme and Eve.  Eve is Jadyne’s first cousin, a wonderful woman who, with Graeme, lives only a couple of miles away from us.  We see them often for wine and cheese. 

Graeme is Australian.  In the sixties he lived in London and brought in a number of Indian musicians to play in England.  The Beatles were into Indian music then, too, and Graeme spent one Christmas with George Harrison.  He remembers Paul McCartney coming over with the first tapes of Magical Mystery Tour.  Graeme and Eve met later.  They have been married for about fifty years.

Eve is the youngest of eight of Jadyne’s first cousins from one family.  Two weeks ago we went to her brother Richie’s funeral. Richie was the youngest boy; Eve, the youngest girl.  Of all the "kids" we probably know her best. 

Eve and Graeme traveled a lot, mostly to Asia.  Graeme has been to India dozens of times.  We met him over there when we went two years ago.  He still loves the culture and the music. 

A month or so ago Eve and Graeme were in Laos.  Eve wasn’t enjoying the trip because she had severe back pain.  When they returned to the US Eve wanted to see a doctor.  She discovered that she had a non-treatable cancer that had rapidly spread from her back to everywhere throughout her body.

We spent most of today with her.  She came home from the hospital two days ago because there was nothing anyone could do for her there.  She’s under hospice care, knows the prognosis, and is ready to go.

Daisy, Eve, and Graeme

While we've been there Eve's surviving brother and two sisters have come by.  At 77 Eve is the youngest.  Her oldest sister, Corrine is in her mid-nineties and is unable to visit. 

Here's Eve with Lian.  We went to Lian's surprise 80th birthday party about ten years ago.  Her husband, Joe, died a few years ago.  She sold her five story house in Point Richmond with views of all the Bay bridges last year and moved to a duplex with her son Mark, who became a paraplegic after a swimming accident years ago.  Lian is a good friend, too.  She gave me a hug when she left and said, "I'm going to miss her so."

Of the four boys only Larry is left.  He was a dentist, but in his teen years he was a movie star.  His name was “Ducky Louie”, and if you click on the link you can see at least four movies that he was in.  We watched “Back to Bataan” 1945 with Anthony Quinn, John Wayne, and of course, Ducky Louie.  Ducky dies in John Wayne’s arms. 

Larry, Eve, and Graeme

Graeme can’t spend more than a few minutes with Eve without breaking down.  She had asked him to tell her a story, but he couldn’t get through it.  He started, "Once upon a time..." and so it went. 

Eve and I shared a love for the Beatles.  She would send me links to any news that she found on the Internet.  If a John Lennon letter was up for auction, she let me know.  If Paul McCartney was going vegan, Eve knew.  I brought my guitar over, sat by her bedside and played all the songs I knew by heart.  Eve was lucid then and requested, "While My Guitar Gently Weeps."

January 3.  Three days later.  Eve has been "sleeping" for the past two days.  When her sister Jeanette came by yesterday Eve was unresponsive.  Another hug.  More tears.  Jadyne and I are going over this afternoon. 

Two days ago I asked Lians' daughter Kim, a physician, how long Eve had to live.  "I wouldn't be surprised if she passed today," she said.  When a patient has the opportunity to say goodbyes and to be ready to die, then it can be at anytime."  Eve has had those chances.  She's ready to go.  We spent another two hours with Eve.  Her breathing is uneven with breaks as long as eight seconds between breaths.  We're watching someone die.  Tomorrow I have cataract sugery on my right eye, so we'll be unable to be there.  I don't know if there will be a there there.

My sister-in-law posted this on Facebook on New Year's Day: 

"In these final hours of 2017 I am reminded how beautifully everything is both a beginning and an end; how we can’t have one without the other and how there is magic in both. To all who read this, may your hearts flood to overflowing with gratitude for this wondrous life."

I wrote back to her saying how hard it was to find the magic in Eve's suffering.

Sean wrote,

"It’s there, David… The magic. It is there.

Magic doesn’t mean no suffering, no sorrow, no broken hearts.

It means that in every thing that ends, something begins and in every beginning, something ends.

It’s easier usually to be a labor coach for a woman who is delivering a baby than it is to be a labor coach for a woman who may be doing the work of dying because in the end of a birth, when things go well, there is a healthy mother and a new life to boot. But in dying all there is, is the loss of someone in the only way we’ve ever known them. And brokenness for the ones who loved her best. And triggers and landmines for a lifetime of losses that all come to beg their due when we are most vulnerable.

And in the dying part of our living we don’t normally have guides and doulas and cheerleaders telling us what to do or reassuring us that we are doing a great job.

So tell her. Hold her closest loved ones in their sorrow and fear. Savor what she will teach you in her dying and don’t even try to look for the magic.

Just trust that it is there…."

January 10th.  Before Eve died on Saturday she called out Graeme's name. 

Eve was cremated.  Sunset cemetery opened a square of grass and dirt about 1' square.  Graeme poured her ashes in next to the graves of her mother and father.

Haters

Conservatives often refer to liberals like me as "haters" because we hate Donald Trump and the current iteration of the Republican Party. They're right. Partly.  I do feel hate for all of them, or more accurately, for what they represent and for what they're doing to America.  I don't hate them.  I hate what they're doing.   It's like a parent correcting a child by saying, "Johnny, you did a bad thing!", rather than, "Johnny, you're bad!"  "Donald, you're doing a very bad thing!"

Rather than drown in the river of hate and selfishness that's currently flowing from the sewers in Washington and the White House, I'm getting out, drying off, then mixing metaphors by flipping the coin.  Here are what I love (and some that I once loved but don't experience anymore).

1.  My wife, kids, spouses, grandkids, extended family everywhere, their pets, everything.        

2.  Watching the sun set behind the Golden Gate Bridge on a clear late Autumn night between late November and mid-December, then waiting as the few spongy clouds in the western sky absorb the orange and red glow of the sun and the lights of the buildings in San Francisco emerge in the darkening sky. 

3.  Graeter's Ice Cream, chilled Chardonnay, Skyline Chili, Duck Noodle Soup, Scallops, Wor Won Ton, A Double-Double at In n' Out, Vietnamese bun, burritos, sushi, hot buttered popcorn. Zachary's pizza, Lucky's pepper bacon..and oh so many more, (even broccoli)

4,  Friends from the past now in the present,  new friends I've met through Facebook.             

5. The opportunity to be of service to others, Meals on Wheels, tutoring middle school kids,, distributing food to those who are less fortunate, using my photographic skills constructively.  

6. Finding beauty in the natural world, in people, in the smallness of nature, unusual juxtapositions, in the way light transforms and enhances everything, then being able to hunt it down and capture it in a photograph. 

7.  Playing a mistake-free song on my guitar.   

8.  Traveling to other countries, or rather, not so much the "traveling" part, but the "being there" part, learning and participating in unfamiliar customs and behaviors. 

9.  Hot showers.

10.  Hiking in forests, mountains, along beaches, anywhere in nature.

11.  Being appreciated. 

12.  Hitting a green in regulation. 

13.  Stepping off the highest chairlift at Heavenly Valley, then taking it all in.

14.  Watching my friends and family succeed at things they love.

15.  Sleeping eight hours.

16.  Living in an ethnically, socially, and politically diverse state.  Well, that last part may be a stretch, but some of my friends have sworn that they've either seen, or in some cases, met a real Republican.  I have my doubts.

17.  Having good health.

18.  Justice, Equality, and Fairness.

19.  Rain, lightning, thunder, snow falling past gas streetlights at night.

I would love it if Trump and the Republicans could climb out of the sewer, reject their (not my) hateful policies, grow backbones, then ask forgiveness.  I could forgive, leaving me with nothing to hate at all.

Unfinished post...many more things to love

The Fire Has a Face

Early in the morning of October 8, 2017 with the help of ferocious winds, a fire that had begun on Tubbs Lane in Napa, blew its embers and flames into Santa Rosa, first to the neighborhood known as Fountaingrove, located on a semi-rural road on the north end of the city, where dozens of beautifully manicured homes sat upon large landscaped lots.  One of those homeowners was Bob Cullinen.

Why is this man smiling?

With less than ten minutes to evacuate Bob and Tomi left their home with nothing more than the clothes on their backs.  Tomi's three-day old Mercedes sat in the driveway, as they left only moments before the flames devoured their home and about seventy-five hundred others.  The most devastating and deadly fires in California history spread throughout the town where Jadyne, Jennifer, and John were born, where I taught high school English for five years and ran a home-based photography business for twenty-six years.

Bob and I taught together at Cardinal Newman HS, which, like Bob's house, was in the path of the flames.

The administration building.  NB.  Visitors no longer need to check in at the Main Office.

Turning away from the school and looking north the row of middle-class suburban houses that fronted the administration building look like this:

And amid all the destruction and ash, there are puzzling little unexpected visions.  While the Tubbs fire was busy destroying almost everything in its path, it paused just long enough to skip around these two mailboxes and the wooden post that held them up.

Just down the street from the high school was Cloverleaf Ranch, where one could learn to ride a horse, board your own horse, and just learn about horses.  Melted corral fence.  Click on each image below to scroll.

I took all these photographs in one-half hour along the half-mile stretch of Old Redwood Highway, a road I drove down Monday through Friday for five years.  These images on this small stretch of road show only a minute number of the more than seven thousand buildings destroyed.  More than forty people died, including a couple who lived behind Cardinal Newman and had just celebrated their fiftieth wedding anniversary.  Like Boston after the marathon bombing, Houston and Florida after Harvey and Irma, Sonoma County is strong.  Power is back on.  Rebuilding has already begun.

The Red State Tour

Where to begin?  With the lanky saxophonist on St. Charles Street that I persuaded to let me take a silhouette of him?  At the fragment of the confederate flag lying on the grass at the Cedar Hill Cemetery in Vicksburg?  Or at the Brown Chapel AME Church in Selma, Alabama, where Jadyne and I joined four hundred voices singing "We Shall Overcome" loudly enough to awaken its former pastor, Martin Luther King?  Eight days later, an amazing sequence of events turning what we had hoped to be an interesting journey into something far more interesting, inspirational, and heart-warming.

So the beginning.  We spent our first day and a half in the Garden District of New Orleans, taking the St. Charles Streetcar ($.40 for seniors) to the end of the line (Canal Street), then meandering through the French Quarter, stopping for the first of three times at Café Du Monde for beignets.  Our New Orleans adventures are chronicled below:

Leaving New Orleans we stopped at the photogenic Oak Alley Plantation, then headed north to Vicksburg, pausing at Natchez just to see St. Mary's Basilica, an out-of-place Italian Renaissance Cathedral in a sleepy 19th century Mississippi River Town.  We saw the cathedral.  And so much more. 

From Natchez to Vicksburg and the Vicksburg National Military Park, commemorating the months long siege at Vicksburg, a turning point in the Civil War.  We also visited the Cedar Hill Cemetery, where thousands of the Confederate dead are buried.

We left Vicksburg for Jackson, meeting the San Francisco Gay Men's Chorus and the Oakland Interfaith Gospel Choir on the steps of the State Capitol building for an impromptu photo op, before heading down the street for the Mississippi State Fair.

A magnificent concert in Jackson, Mississippi, then a three and a half hour drive to Selma, Alabama, where in the company of four hundred other voices belonging to the San Francisco Gay Men's Chorus and the Oakland Interfaith Gospel Choir we sang "We Shall Overcome" in the Brown Chapel, the church where Martin Luther King organized the Bloody Sunday march across the Edmund Pettus bridge.

Jadyne and I left the next day for Montgomery, where we visited the Civil Rights Museum,  the Rosa Parks Museum, and the home where MLK lived when he was pastor at the church.  On our drive home, we stopped at Monroeville, AL, Harper Lee and Truman Capote's hometown, (they were friends), before bedding down in Biloxi, then heading back for one more morning in New Orleans.

A Day With Kennedy

Ted’s at Tahoe, so the weekly Friday Tilden hike didn’t took place.  Instead Jadyne and I left home by 7:30 and headed east to Sacramento for Grandparents Day.  As usual, I had no idea what was going to take place this Friday.  I just knew that I was to show up.  We arrived at 1370 Weller Way at 9:00, fifteen minutes before Lillian, Jadyne, and MaryAnn Slater were to go to “high tea” at Lillian’s kindergarten class, an event that was scheduled to last a painfully long two and a half hours.  “David,” Kim said, “It’s a day for you with Kennedy.  He has a cold, but I’m sure you’ll have a good time.” 

Turning to Kennedy, who was whining when we arrived, Kim asked, “Kennedy, would you like to go to the park with Granddad?” “No!” "Go on the swings?" “No!” “Go for a walk in the neighborhood?" “No! he wailed, “I want to go with you.” Kill me now.  Three hours with a sick, whiny three-year old who doesn’t want to do anything. 

“Kennedy,” Kim implored, “How would you like to go to Fairytale Town?” “Ok,’ he said, mostly under his breath.

Armed with the Buchholz family pass for Kennedy and a $4.75 admission for me, I plopped Kennedy into the car seat and drove the mile or so up the road to Fairytale Town, a fifties style amusement park for toddlers and pre-schoolers.  A two seater pumpkin on wheels led by four tethered horses (Cinderella), a slide down a giant old lady’s shoe (The Old Woman Who Lived in a Shoe), soft mats, tunnels, and of course, Mr. McGregor’s garden.  Kennedy selected one after another of the hanging plastic watering cans, then poured the contents on the soil, previously saturated by gallons and gallons of water poured by countless little children under the mistaken belief that they were actually helping the plants, though in fact, I thought I could hear the faint screams coming from the leaves who were pleading for the children to go away.  When one watering can was empty, Kennedy carefully hung it up and took another, repeating the process, oh, about twenty times. 

Moving on, we found a yellow tunnel.  Kennedy was equally adept at going down as well as climbing up.

“Kennedy, you can go up or down as many times as you like,” I said, knowing that we still had about two hours to fill.  Up and down, then down and up the yellow tunnel for at least fifteen minutes.  It’s now 10:15.  “Let’s go to King Arthur’s Round Table,” I suggested, “and you can sit in King Arthur’s throne.” 

Two minutes max.  It’s 10:20.

We rode Cinderella’s horses, ate an ice cream “pop up”, went down more slides, saw the goats, rabbits, and Eeyore, the donkey, finally finishing up on the Jack and the Beanstalk slide.  Upside down and headfirst, of course.

Home for lunch and peace and quiet.  John was in court all morning and Kim had three more hours of work.  Jadyne and I put Kennedy down for a nap. “I think I hear Kennedy crying,” Jadyne said, “Would you go see if you can quiet him down?”  John and Kim’s bedroom was dark, but little puddles of light leaked out from beneath the closet door, where Kennedy sat on the floor, in tears.  I picked him up, then lay down on the bed on my back with Kennedy on top.  “Kennedy, “ I began, “I just want you to know that I had the most wonderful time with you today…you went down the slide so many times and so fast that I couldn’t keep up with you at all…and those plants are going to grow so big because you were so thoughtful to water them…and I just want you to know how much I love you…and what a special child you are…and that I’m so happy that you’re my grandson because you’re so special and so smart and I’m so happy to have this time to spend with you…and I went on and on, and as the sniveling stopped, the body grew quiet, and he continued to hug me. Jadyne snuck in, thinking we were asleep

And so it went.  Soon we were playing with the marble raceway, riding a scooter, and I was reminded why Jadyne and I wanted children almost a half century ago, and why all the stuffy heads, the sniveling, and the tears were all welcome pieces of this grand puzzle that have been the best part of our lives over the last forty-seven years.

Uncle Rowland

I've always remembered Uncle Rowland's birthday, as it fell two days after mine.  He and his twin brother Andrew would have been 100 years old on Tuesday, July 11th, 2017.  Andrew died about twenty-five years ago and Rowland on Memorial Day, 2000.  It was fitting that Rowland, after beating one of his friends in tennis, (he was an excellent tennis player) woke up the following morning, bathed, and as he was dressing dropped to the floor.

Rowland was one of the most complicated people I ever knew.  Never married, he was conservative to the core, embraced old-school prejudices, despised liberals, drove Chevrolets (which he traded in every two years; as a salesman he didn't want to drive anything that would make it appear that he was too successful) , flew an American flag, served in the Air Force, loved tennis and young male tennis players (I never knew whether he was gay or not, but if he was, he was not only in the closet, but he locked it behind him), drank gallons of Coca-Cola in six and a half ounce glass bottles, (to which he referred to only by that name, not "Coke"), was always well-dressed, loved the symphony but never listened to music and couldn't sing, appreciated design in all things—clothes, furniture, and art, had little tolerance for stupidity or bad taste, and was generous to both people and institutions such as museums and charitable foundations.

It was his love and generosity to people that I knew best.  My father died when I was six weeks old, and Rowland, a bachelor, took his place.  He took me and my brother to Cincinnati's Union Terminal to watch the trains, to Coney Island, an unwilling passenger in the" Dodge-Em" electric bumper cars. He bought us Greater's ice cream cones, Frisch's Big Boys, and other treats that were conspicuously absent from our normal diet.  When my mother remarried, Rowland continued with his generosity, paying for tennis lessons for me and other unremembered acts of kindness.  

Rowland loved the traditional Eastern "good" colleges, and took me to visit three of them in 1962—Duke, Davidson, and UNC.  A year later, when we unexpectedly moved to California, he came west and took me on my first visit to Yosemite.  

Three years later I found myself back in Cincinnati for my brother's wedding.  Disenchanted with my two years at Whitman College I found myself 1-A (draft bait) and because Uncle Rowland invited me to live with him, I walked down the street and enrolled at the University of Cincinnati.

Although he strongly objected to my marrying Jadyne, he, as the rest of my family did, learned to love her.  He was a frequent visitor to our modest home in Oxford, and he flew to California more than once to see us in Santa Rosa.  

On the night before he died, I said to Jadyne, "I have to call Rowland", and even though dinner was on the table I dialed AVon 1-0229.  We hadn't talked for a couple of months, but something made me call him right then.  All was as it was supposed to be.  I remember much of our conversation.  I was the last person to talk to him.

A Fable From the Future

"Grandma, were you alive when Donald Trump was President?"

"No, honey, I wasn't, but your great grandparents told me that it was a very awful time, and many people were sad."

"Why were they so sad?"

"They were sad because Donald Trump always lied, but the people who liked him believed what he had to say. "

"What kind of lies did he tell, Grandma?"

"Honey, he lied about everything. If he ate a peach pie he said it was a hamburger; he said that up was down and left was right. He wanted everyone to love him, too, but he wasn't very nice to anyone.

"What else, Grandma?"

"He thought that only white people should live in America, and he tried to prevent people from other countries to come in, believing that if they didn't speak English before they came they shouldn't be allowed to come at all. He thought it was funny when people who had lived here for many years and had even served in the Army should be sent back to their native countries. He believed that he would be able to beat up all the bad guys in thirty days, but he never even tried because he was a coward; he said it would be very easy to make it possible for everyone to see a doctor, but he didn't do that, either. He loved being rich. He hired people around him to destroy the country just to make themselves rich, too. He was married to a very pretty woman, but he loved money much more than he loved her. And he loved golf just as much as he loved money."

"How did he go away, Grandma?"

"He told all the people who liked him that day was night and night was day, so they drove in their cars all day with their headlights on, and believing that night was day, they turned off their headlights at night. Thousands of them drove into telephone poles, and that helped both the auto and funeral business, which got the country back on track."

"But what about President Trump?"

"Honey, he started believing his own lies. He said, 'I can fly', so he jumped off one of his hotels, planning to fly to Mar a Lago, but his made-in-Vietnam sports coat got caught on the big "T" of his hotel, and there he is to this day swinging in the wind on the 45th floor of his hotel in Chicago."

The Zephyr

The administration has threatened to remove the subsidy that enables Amtrak to operate its long distance trains, including two of our favorites, the Zephyr (Oakland-Chicago), and the Coast Starlight (Seattle- Los Angeles).  We've ridden both and have wonderful (and not so wonderful) memories of our many trips.

Top:  The eastbound Zephyr arriving Glenwood Springs, CO.  Bottom:  The westbound Zephyr arriving Glenwood Springs.

Because my brother-in-law lives in Glenwood Springs, one of the many stops between Oakland and Chicago, it made sense for us to visit via train.  No airline flies into Glenwood Springs, and trips to Denver (4 hours away) or Aspen (one hour) are often diverted because of the unpredictable weather over the Rockies.  (Last year we thought we were flying into Aspen but were diverted to Denver.  No flights until the morning, so we prowled the airport for nine hours) In theory, the Zephyr takes about twenty-two hours to make the trip, but theory and reality often don't mix.  Passengers may be an hour or more late; if you're more than four hours late Amtrak provides a free meal.  We've had several of those.  Here now are some bits and pieces of memories from our trips on the Zephyr::

1.  Santa Claus making a stop in the coach car on a Christmas overnight, wowing our three kids.  

2. Waking up on a chilly winter morning, expecting to see Reno at 6 am.  When we passed Battle Mountain, Nevada, hundreds of miles from Reno we asked the conductor, "Why?"  He said, "When it's below 15 degrees, the train can't go any faster than 10 mph on the frozen steel tracks."

 3. Heading west and coming to a dead stop in the middle of Nowhere, Nevada.  "Folks," the voice on the PA announced, "The track is out ahead of us, but a crew is on its way to replace it."  

4. In the shared tables of the dining car we sat with a farmer and his wife from Kansas.  Returning from dropping off their daughter at Stanford, they expressed their amazement at things California.  "My," the husband exclaimed, "There was a BMW on every corner!"  Knowing that we were from California, he asked, "Do you have one?"  Pausing for effect, I said, "No, we have two."

5. Bringing a bucket of KFC and a pitcher of gin and tonics for the long ride in the coach car to Colorado.

6. Looking out of the observation car as we crossed Donner Summit in a blizzard, seeing hundreds of cars stuck in the snow on Hwy #80, passing the gin and tonics around and feeling warm and grateful to be on the train.  

 7. The thrill of crossing Donner Summit in the winter, passing under ski lift lines, through snow tunnels by Donner Lake.                                                                                                                     

8. Leaving CO on the Fourth of July and seeing parades in Battle Mountain, Reno, and fireworks along the bay.

9. Sitting in the observation car as lightning strikes hit trees and set them aflame, only to find out later that these strikes set the infamous "Storm King Mountain" fire in 1994, which took the lives of fourteen firefighters.

10. A cold night under not enough blankets.  I found an empty roomette.  Ushered the wife and three kids onto beds that would have cost us the proverbial arm and a leg and slept warm and peacefully for hours.

11. We were sound asleep in the middle of the night a few miles west of Salt Lake City when Jadyne received a text from Jennifer, who posted first photographs of Isla, our third grandchild, born minutes earlier in England.

Waiting for trains is part of the experience.

The station in Sacramento.

Greg and Sean love trains.  When they discovered that the Zephyr was towing several vintage cars back to Chicago they paid a premium to ride in one of the fully-restored private cars.  Meals and an open bar were included for the three day ride across the US.  We jumped on with them for the ninety minutes between Emeryville and Sacramento and were feted with both breakfast and a Bloody Mary.

Something wrong with that top photo.  Not only do the cars go back to the 1940's but racial stereotypes do, too.  In the middle are Jadyne's brother Greg and his wife Sean.  The Bottom photo is the bar car.  And below:  The observation car.

When you purchase a sleeper your meals are included.  Here's your chef: (the guy who puts your food in the microwave).

Only once did we take the Coast Starlight.  Beginning in Seattle, the Coast Starlight travels the western seaboard, offering spectacular views of the Pacific and parts of California not visible from the highways.  Sounds wonderful, doesn't it?  We boarded the Coast Starlight in Oakland and before we got to San Jose, one hour south, we lost one of the two engines.  We waited four hours before we could resume our journey, only going half the speed.  Other problems ensued. The train was delayed because freight trains have priority so we waited on sidings; the crew had to be replaced because they had been on duty too long; the engine had to be checked out for safety reasons because it had been running too long; the dining room ran out of food and the bar ran out of booze. Our 6 pm arrival time turned into 2 am the next morning, an eight hour delay.  The length of time it took us to go from Oakland to LA was about the same as it would have taken someone riding a bicycle.  And the views?  When we hit the scenic parts of California it was pitch black.  Alas, this is the state of affairs on Amtrak.

So what do you do on the train?  Play cards, eat, drink, and read.  This is one of my favorite photos of an Amtrak passenger, oblivious to the camera.

At the top I mentioned that some of the experiences were "not so wonderful."  On January 1, 1988 I asked Jadyne, her brother Greg, and her sister Teeny to stand on the tracks as we boarded the train on our way back to Oakland.  Teeny was killed in an avalanche nine days later, and this was the last time we ever saw her, now thirty years ago...

Chris Silva

Chris was a student of mine when I taught at Cardinal Newman HS between 1975-1980.  An intelligent, perceptive, well-spoken and thoroughly delightful young man, he told me the story, now legend, about his trying to get a job as a bagger at Petrini's Supermarket.  When his interview failed to persuade the manager to hire him, Chris handed him his business card, and said, "If something opens up, please consider me."  So impressed was the manager that Chris was hired, moving from bagger to checker, then to student body president at Cardinal Newman and the same at his alma mater, Loyola Marymount.  

After graduating from college Chris went to law school, became a respected trial lawyer before leaving law altogether and becoming the very young CEO of St. Francis winery in Kenwood, CA, where I found him again.

Last year he gave us a tour of the winery, punctuated by his "Wall of Shame", framed photographs of Chris with every president since Reagan, and an especially surprising one of him with Margaret Thatcher.  Under his guidance the stature of the winery grew considerably, now hosting, too, what Open Table calls "the best restaurant in America."  Chris donated much in the way of good will and money to the community.  He was the chairman of the Board of Trustees at Memorial Hospital in Santa Rosa and held a number of both honorary positions where his name and reputation guaranteed success.

Chris and I were FB friends.  He was a political centrist; I am liberal.  More than once did he delete an ongoing conversation between us because it became too heated, and it was precisely the vitriol that his moderate sensitive mind wouldn't tolerate.  I respected his opinion, and I've saved a conversation.

So what a surprise it was to discover that he had brain cancer...when he discovered the cancer he wrote, "...I have been so very lucky, successful beyond my wildest dreams with richness of family and some really wonderful—just wonderful friendships that continue to sustain me.

The ability to serve others has been my constant passion.  Little did I know that this would bring me such depth of purpose.  And the travel—oh, the travel—I have seen the world and been to the four corners of the earth and back.

Don't cry for me—not just yet.  This has really been a wonderful life—so much richness and joy—everlasting joy—and I have not yet begun to fight..As my wonderful brother says, 'enjoy each day.'  Amen."

So Frank, Marian, Jadyne, and I arrived at St. Rose at 9:30 for the 10:00 funeral mass.  Knowing how loved Chris was, we knew that if we arrived later we wouldn’t have been able to sit.  By 9:45 all the pews were filled, and people began lining up and down the aisles, then doubling up in the back of the church, in the vestibule, and outside.  The two hour mass began shortly after 10:00, and was punctuated at the end by three “remembrances”—one by his best friend, and one each by his sister-in-law, and one by his brother.  They were heartfelt, funny, touching, and kind, just as Chris was.

I asked the people sitting next to me, “How did you know Chris?”  The husband said, “I was his doctor.”  I asked him, “Were you the one who diagnosed his brain tumor?”  He responded, “Yes.”  I asked him how it happened.  He said Chris was giving a tour of the winery and he forgot where the Zinfandel was.  He came into the office and told the doctor of his experience, and the doctor had him take an MRI.  Since there was no doctor in the imaging room Chris was able to sweet talk the technician into showing him the MRI before the doctor saw it. 

Chris saw a very large tumor that had been growing for months.  I don’t know how the doctor responded, but he told me that even if the tumor had been close to microscopic, not as large as the one in Chris’s MRI, the diagnosis would have been that this kind of brain cancer is terminal. 

74 days between forgetting the Zinfandel and passing away.  Again, I’m still reeling.

A funny story.  Chris knew everyone.  He was having dinner in NY when he saw at another table Henry Kissinger, Diane Sawyer, and Margaret Thatcher sitting together.  Chris had the restaurant send over a bottle or two of the finest St. Francis wines from the restaurant’s cellar.  They smiled and nodded.  After dinner Chris went over and gave them his business card.  He invited Margaret Thatcher to visit the winery.  Not only did she do that, but she invited him to visit her in England and gave him an hour’s conversation.

We laughed at these stories and cried when we reflected on the losses that afflict us, that take us by surprise, that remind us that life is short, that we must make each day mean as much to us as we can, and these stories, these thoughts, simply punctuate for me the reasons why we need to tell the people we love that we love them.  We can’t overdo this.

Stillness

Just as I sat down to type this someone sent this to me through Messenger:

I need inner stillness.

I used to awake every morning, open my eyes, and simply be grateful to be alive, to be a part of this universe.  I quickly added gratitude for all the other blessings I have—for good health, for J, for family.  For the last several months I’ve only been successful doing this through a kind of forced discipline.  Sometimes I’m already out walking before I remember to put aside my hatred for Trump and turn my thoughts towards the very real blessings I have. 

There’s a kiosk in Kensington.  On it are “help wanted” ads, advertised classes, notices of upcoming concerts.  A therapist is offering a class in managing stress in the age of Trump.  It’s full.  My cardiologist friend calls it “Trump 10”, a ten pound weight gain because of political stress. 

We cherish those moments that take us away from this.  Oakland had several hundred thousand jubilant people today celebrating the Golden State Warriors NBA victory over Cleveland in the finals.  I enjoyed watching the games, but that’s all.  My friend David managed to get a seat for $1000 for one of the games.  Hamilton was expensive enough, and I suspect that the outcome was a bit more certain.

I cherish much in my life.  I cherish Kennedy’s apparent recovery. I cherish J.  I cherish all my grandchildren and my children.

Having to remind myself to do that, though, when these feelings should simply flow as naturally as a mountain spring, suggests that the heart and the mind are both vulnerable, sabotaged, kidnapped, and otherwise taken prisoner by the very real and pressing issues that surround us, what we’re reminded of in the tweetstorms, the internet, the Washington Post, NY Times, and Facebook.

That I think every day about “how much I hate that motherfucker” doesn’t lead me to stillness.  However, if I think about Jay and about all the wonderful blessings in my life, the path doesn’t seem nearly as steep, the issues not nearly as pressing.

The Draft

I no longer have my Selective Service Card, but unlike many in my generation I didn't burn it.  It was a small, wallet-sized card, something that would fit in next to a Sohio Credit Card, or one for Pogues, containing vital information—my birthday and social security number.  For men between the ages of 18 and 26 it was a card that would admit them to a very exclusive club—the US Army.

Deferments abounded for those between the ages of 18 and 26, but they changed as quickly as the spring weather in Oklahoma.  For those who did not wish to serve in the military, there were conscientious objectors, survivors of military who had died, hardship cases, ministers, veterans, immigrants, dual nationals, and more commonly, college students, people serving in Vista or the Peace Corps, and for a while, young married men. But like the weather, all that was subject to frequent change.

When I turned 18 I was a freshman at Whitman College in Walla Walla, Washington.  My deferment lasted through my sophomore year, or my 19th birthday.  At that time I decided not to return to Whitman, worked during the summer in Cincinnati, then found myself reclassified as 1-A, which meant "draft bait."  I walked up the street, enrolled at UC, and for three years found myself exempted from the draft.  The rules changed again.  Now college students were draft exempt only if they had a certain grade point high enough.  (I don't remember what it was.)  At that time I had an English professor named Claude Allen, who so objected to the war effort that he refused to participate, choosing instead to award each and every one of his students an "A" to bolster their grade point, perhaps to make them out of reach of the long arms of the draft.  (He announced those students that would have received an "A" regardless, and I was so honored).

But the rules changed again.  Now it wasn't GPA anymore, but a three hour test, like the SAT, that male college students were required to take.  I took it.  I remember such questions as, "a machine gun is to a tank as...something else is to something else."  I was supposed to pick the right choice. I passed.

I graduated in 1969, the year I turned 23.  I had applied to teach English in the American Farm School in Thessaloniki, Greece, which might have been a deferment, and the Peace Corps, which clearly was a deferment.  I was accepted to the Peace Corps in 1969 as an English teacher, bound for the islands of Tonga in the South Pacific, and although evading the Viet Nam war wasn't the first thing on my mind, it played a part.

So in October, 1969, we flew to the island of Molokai for three months of Peace Corps training and two years of service.  Another weather change.  Bob Nygard, on of the trainees, was summoned by his draft board the day he arrived in Hawaii.  He flew back to Pittsburg the next day for a physical exam.  Others discovered that even though the Peace Corps was a legal deferment, some draft boards ignored the legality of it all and summoned young men for physicals and service.

Marriage was a deferment, at least until August 26, 1965 when LBJ ended the deferment. Hundreds of couples, planning to marry, lined the streets of Las Vegas for a 30 second ceremony. For some, the honeymoon was short-lived.  As the need for more soldiers increased, the marriage deferments ended.  All those who rushed to Las Vegas to be married discovered afterwards that it didn't matter.  They were eligible.  Ever changing weather.

Meanwhile, I was given another 1A draft notice and a date to appear before the Selective Service Committee.  I had run out of options.  I wasn't willing to be drafted, and I believed that the war was both wrong and immoral.  I was planning to plead as a conscientious objector, but without credentials, such as being a Quaker or having volunteered or worked with a number of well-known anti-war organizations, I knew that my plea would go unheeded.  I prepared myself for jail.

And then came the lottery.

Here's the chart showing all the capsules and the results.

Someone in a college fraternity threw a brick through the TV set when September 14th was picked, the number one selection.  My birthday, July 9th, was #277.  What that meant was this: each month a number of soldiers was needed.  Once all the September 14th eligible males were chosen, the second date was selected.  And so on until enough soldiers were drafted.  The next month the process repeated itself, beginning again with September 14th.  It was unlikely that more than fifty birthdays would have been selected each month, each time beginning with September 14th.  In any case, #277 was safe.  

The lottery was held two more times, for those who were too young to be included in the original lottery but who had just turned 18.   The second year Jadyne and I were walking down the street in San Francisco when I spied the San Francisco Chronicle's headlines:  "July 9 is #1" read the banner.  I thought, of course it is.  That's my birthday.  And it was.  18 year olds born on my birthday were the first to be drafted.

The Encounter

I met Jadyne in a Peace Corps training session in 1969.  We were part of Tonga V, fifty-five     young men and women who had signed up to spend two years of our lives as English teachers on one of the one hundred and seventy islands that comprised the Kingdom of Tonga, a Pacific archipelago somewhere between Hawaii and Australia.  To become familiar with Tongan customs and to learn the language we were sent to Ho'olehua, a remote community several miles inland on the Hawaiian island of Molokai.  Our small propeller driven plane almost crashed upon landing, after which the directors of the camp said, "We thought we might be having to wait for Tonga VI".  

During those three months of training we spent approximately six hours a day learning the Tongan language.  You learn conversational Tongan quickly speaking it six hours a day.  The Polynesian words themselves, chockablock full of vowels, reflected both the Tongan culture and the advent of western civilization. "Vacapuna", for example, means "airplane."  In Tongan "vaca" means "flying", and "puna" means "boat", so when Tongans first saw airplanes they connected what they saw to what they knew.

The remainder of our days was spent tending our gardens, raising chickens, and spending time with both the Tongans who had come to Hawaii to teach us the language and the customs of their native country, and the volunteers who were extending their service by three months to show us the ropes.  

In October of 1969 Nixon was president, and the war in Vietnam was raging.  Even though Peace Corps service was supposed to give us a temporary deferment, Bob Nyland had to be in Pittsburgh for a physical exam the day after we arrived; others left because the training wasn't what they expected, or the prospect of living alone on one of the forty-seven inhabited islands didn't agree with them.  We were told that before we went to sleep we were to put tiny bowls of food at our feet so we could hear the rats before they found us. I loved it all.  That is, all except for cauterizing the chickens' beaks so they couldn't peck each other.  

And I loved the Tongan people, too.  They were handsome, physically fit, and were able to adapt easily to life in Hawaii, which was probably not too different from life in Tonga.  I learned to love rice.  I ate spam.  I went spear-fishing with one of the Tongan men, who caught a fish, broke it in half on the spot, and handed me half.  I ate it.  My first sushi.  No wasabi.

There were two psychologists in the group, the Tongan men and women, and the returned PC volunteers.  When I met with one of the psychologists she referred to me as a "Supervol", meaning that I was adapting well, had learned the language, and was well-liked by the Tongans.  

Everyone but Dennis Barloga.  Dennis was a returned Peace Corps volunteer, and he didn't like me. I didn't know that.  I didn't spend much time talking to Dennis during training (nor the other returned volunteers), choosing instead to spend time with the trainees and the Tongans.  But Dennis was watching me, watching, but not saying anything.  

One of the the jobs of the returned volunteers, the Tongans, and the psychologists, was to weed out the people that they thought wouldn't be a good fit for Tonga.  Each of them had "black ball" privileges, meaning that if any one of them decided that you must leave, then you must leave. By mid-January Dennis had had enough of me.  He said, 'David, you're not going."  It was the first time that Dennis had ever talked to me.  He had never given any kind of warning.  "David, you're leaving."  No appeal.  A plane reservation had already been made for me to fly from Molokai to Honolulu, then back to SF.  I was surprised and devastated.

I turned to my best friend among the trainees, Jadyne.  The night before my plane left we walked the dusty two-lane roads of Molokai.  In the morning she rode with Jack, the head of the program, to the airport, and I said "goodbye" to both of them, boarded the plane, and tried to figure out what I was going to do next.  I knew I would be 1-A, draft bait, and I knew that I would never serve in a military that was fighting an unjust war.  

I returned home, applied for a passport, and thought to leave for Rome, where a friend was teaching English.  Meanwhile, my thoughts turned back to Jadyne, and the support and friendship she gave me that one very unhappy night.  I wished her well and invited her to return to the US and go with me to Rome.  Short story.  She did.  We decided to marry.  We prepared to go to Rome afterwards, but I was so in love with photography that I thought about trying to go to the Rhode Island School of Design, get an advanced degree, and make a living as an art photographer.  That didn't work.  We both got Master's degrees in Ohio where we taught for some years before returning to California.

Fast Forward five years.  One day we strolled down Pier 39 near Fisherman's Wharf and found a touristy photo shop owned by Dennis Barloga.  I didn't realize it in PC training, but Dennis was a photographer, too.  Now he was selling San Francisco scenes from one of the most visited sites in one of the most visited cities in America.  I recognized Dennis.  He didn't see me.  

Years went by.  I was reluctant to tell people that I'd been "kicked out of the Peace Corps", and those who knew invariably responded, "How in the world can you get kicked out of the Peace Corps?"  At some point I stopped being embarrassed.  I was comfortable with myself, my life.  I had enough good points to counter the bad.  I recognized that David Buchholz wasn't defined by this one experience.  I was at peace.  

In 2000 Jason was living in Berkeley near a tony neighborhood called Rockridge  a chi-chi kind of Carmel North.  One of the stores, "Barloga et Fils", sold framed art photographs.  Recognizing the name, Jason walked in and the bearded middle-aged owner said, "Can I help you?"  Jason walked around the store, looking at the images, and returned to the man behind the counter.  "Can I help you?" he repeated.  "You already have," Jason said, walking out.

Father Finn, Bishop Hurley, and My One Very Bad Night

Today for Throwback Thursday I posted a photograph of Father Finn and Sister Francis, a Catholic priest and a nun who were the principals of two Catholic high schools in Santa Rosa.  I taught English at Cardinal Newman for five years and was the Department Chairman for at least two of those years.  The photograph shows them both in clown outfits.  I was also the yearbook advisor, and they were both kind enough to dress up as clowns (face paint and all) for a yearbook theme that I can't even remember. 

They were both very good people, although I only worked for Father Finn.  A number of Ursuline students took classes at Cardinal Newman (and vice-versa), as the two schools shared common grounds.  Sister Francis, as I knew her, was a kind and loving administrator.

When I posted the photo today I wanted to note when Father Finn died.  I remember his funeral (and Bernie Ward's cell phone going off as the casket was wheeled down the aisle at St. Eugene's Cathedral), but I couldn't remember the year.  When I googled "Father Willam Finn Santa Rosa" an article from the San Francisco Chronicle popped up, and I learned more from that article than I had ever known.

I left my teaching position in 1980.  By 1981 the truth that at least two priests in the Diocese had molested Cardinal Newman students became known.  When the molestations were brought to Father Finn's attention he went to see Bishop Hurley.  From the article in the Chronicle:

"The Roman Catholic priest who blew the whistle on two fellow priests in Sonoma County says he has become a sort of ecclesiastical outcast, unable to function as a priest and denied a clergy job in his native Santa Rosa community.  "All I did was the right thing—to defend young people.  And it came back to haunt me.  If that's the price, so be it.  I sleep well at night."

Bishop Hurley promised to investigate but did nothing. A lawsuit accused the church of sheltering the two priests by transferring them to new parishes after learning of their alleged sexual abuse.  And Finn?  He worked as a resort chef in Washington, as a pastor in Juneau, for a home warranty company, then ran a Santa Rosa restaurant.

There may be other reasons, Finn acknowledged, but "I was turned down at least partly due to the fact that I had spoken publicly about the alleged molestations. I am far from a perfected human being. I am not pushing myself as a saint, but I have never harmed anyone."

I'm not bitter. My love for the church and desire to serve remain as constant as ever. I'd like to do whatever I can to help the church address these problems."

He died shortly thereafter.  When the article was written, however, Hurley had retired, and "has not been available for comment."

Ah, Bishop Hurley.  The year was 1978, and on November 18th of that year Jim Jones and over 900 of the residents of Jonestown died in Guyana.  Nine days later Supervisor Dan White assassinated San Francisco Mayor George Moscone and Supervisor Harvey Milk.  All this about a month before Christmas.

 At this time Jadyne had a college friend, a very bright scholarly man named Michael Galligan.  Coincidentally, Michael not only became a Catholic priest, but he joined the Santa Rosa Diocese. We had him over for dinner occasionally and enjoyed his conversation.  Michael was in charge of the Diocesan newsletter, and he was responsible for an issue that would come out after Christmas.  Knowing that I was an amateur photographer and musician he asked two favors:  that I accompany the choir on guitar, and second, that I photograph Bishop Hurley delivering his homily during the Midnight Mass Christmas Eve.

I agreed and picked up the sheet music from the choir and learned the music during choir rehearsals.  It wasn't particularly difficult, but totally apropos for voices and an acoustic guitar.  After the Christmas Eve hymn I returned to the pew where Jadyne, her mother Alyce, and my camera bag full of Nikon cameras and lenses were taking in the solemnity and joy of a Christmas Eve church celebration.

I had loaded my Nikon F2 with Tri-X 400 ASA film before the service and had measured the light carefully so I wouldn't have to fiddle when the Bishop began to speak.  As he did, I stood up, camera at the ready, my 135mm Nikkor F2.8 lens in hand, and as I focussed on Bishop Hurley, he stopped and turned to me and said, "Go on, take your picture."  Standing before 3000 Christmas Eve parishioners, many of whom were my students and their parents, I said, "I'm sorry, Bishop, but I was asked to take your photograph for the newsletter."  Ignoring my apology, he turned to those assembled and said, (and I quote, as I remember so well), "He bothers you far more than he bothers me."  I snapped off two or three images, sat down, and tried to remain calm as the flow of blood left all other parts of my body and began a headlong rush to the top of my scalp. To say I was embarrassed or humiliated would have understated how bad I felt, and this at a Christmas Eve Midnight Mass.  

When the service ended I went back to the choir stall and discovered that someone had gouged the soundboard of my 1966 Martin D-28, and at the time the damage didn't mean much to me. We climbed in our 1974 yellow Volvo 145, fastened our seat belts, and set off for Dutton Avenue. To say that this was the most unhappy Christmas I had ever spent would be an understatement.  I was doing a double favor for Fr. Michael Galligan, accompanying the choir and photographing the Bishop.  My precious guitar was damaged.  I was unspeakably humiliated before my students and their parents in front of over three thousand people.  And I had to develop the film and send him some images.

I waited for an apology from Fr. Michael Galligan, who, I assumed would also request that Bishop Hurley call and apologize to me, too.  It wasn't to happen.  I called Bishop Hurley and demanded as kindly as I could that he apologize to me.  "Oh, he said, I was distracted by the Jonestown deaths ad the killings in San Francisco."  "Distracted?  You embarrassed me before everyone I have come to know in the four years since I moved to Santa Rosa, and you have an excuse?"  As far as Fr. Galligan went we gladly excised him from our lives.

Months later as the Cardinal Newman seniors prepared to march for graduation, as a faculty member I was to march in with other teachers, priests, and brothers.  As fate would have it, we walked in two by two, and my marching partner was Bishop Hurley.  He had no idea who I was, had never seen me before, and we left it at that.  This man who destroyed others' lives, this "man of God" who through his indifference about molestation in the priesthood, was personally responsible for the downfall of a really good person.  Father Finn said, "I am not pushing myself as a saint, but I have never harmed anyone."  He harmed no one, but Bishop Hurley did—Father Finn, innocent students, the parishioners, (me) and so many others.

In the movie Spotlight, the film about the molestations in Boston, the credits at the end of the film list other cities where known molestations occurred.  I wasn't at all surprised to see "The Diocese of Santa Rosa" listed.  I've known priests who were involved in those molestations, and I'm still in touch with a number of the victims, who are now in their mid-fifties.  One student, not a victim, who was aware of the molestations asked me on Facebook, "Mr. B, why didn't you do anything?"  I answered, "I didn't know."

The Budget and Meals on Wheels

Our first stop Thursday around 11:15 is at Victoria's apartment.  We pick up the paper in the driveway, climb the steps, ring the bell and hand her both a hot lunch and a cold bag.  In the cold bag is a milk, a piece of fruit, and something sweet.  Victoria always has the TV on, but she hears the doorbell.  She always thanks us.  Victoria has Stage IV cancer.

Our second stop is a few blocks away.  Moffet also lives in a second floor apartment.  She answers the door promptly and thanks us, too.  She's always in her bathrobe.

Heading north to Mr. Mui's house.  We're hopeful that the Albany Senior Citizens van has brought him back from shopping or a doctor's visit before we arrive with his lunch.  If not, he'll have to go to the Albany Senior Center to pick it up.  Mr.  Mui is Chinese.  He bows, makes a prayerful gesture with his hands and says, "Doh Jeh."

Down the street a couple of blocks is Vera.  Vera takes about an entire season to get from her chair, vertical, into her walker, then make it to the door.  But she does.  "Is this today's meal?" she asks, (which, of course, it is, in that it's today, and we're handing her food).  But we say, "Yes, Vera, this is today's meal."  

The last two stops are on the same street a few blocks away.  The first gentleman is Rico, who no longer answers the door.  His daughter does that for him now.  We used to bring meals for his wife, too, but she died a year ago.  I haven't met the couple who live a few doors down.  They're new to the program.

We drive back to the Albany Senior Center, as we've done every Thursday for the past fifteen years and drop off our "hot bags", then head home.  Often, Jadyne and I finish up by going out to lunch ourselves, usually Thai, Vietnamese, or Mexican.  That's our Thursday.

And that's the program that Mr. Trump wants to cut.  The White House Says Cutting Meals on Wheels is “Compassionate.”  “I think it’s probably one of the most compassionate things we can do,” Mulvaney said, of slashing funding for food assistance for the elderly.” No, Mulvaney says, the "compassionate" thing to do is for tax payers, to "go to them and say, look, we're not going to ask you for your hard-earned money anymore. Single mom of two in Detroit, give us your money. We're not going to do that anymore unless they can guarantee that money will be used in a proper function." That, he says, "is about as compassionate as you can get."

Mr. Mulvaney, let's remember that the "single mom in Detroit" is also paying for Mr. Trump's weekends in Florida, and each weekend costs the same as the entire national program of Meals on Wheels.