The Art of Forgiving

But, you and I, we've been through that
And this is not our fate
So let us stop talkin' falsely now
The hour's getting late. -- Bob Dylan

American folksingers Pete Seeger and Burl Ives reunite in 1993.

If there is one thing that I have tried to take with me from my early years of Catholicism,* it’s the virtue of forgiveness. A simple act that can be so difficult yet so rewarding. The gateway to Heaven.

Catholics go to confession to ask forgiveness for their sins. Again and again.

Jesus’ words dying on the cross: Forgive them Father for they know not what they do. (Luke 23:34)

Forgiveness is liberation. Overcoming a grudge releases us. Letting go of hard feelings takes courage. It is a step toward a higher principle, a spiritual understanding and guide for life.

Forgiving is not forgetting. Sometimes you forgive, then you forgive again... letting go becomes a process.

A memory that sticks in my mind were the words of American folksinger Pete Seeger upon the death of his contemporary Burl Ives.

Ives was popular on radio and TV during the 50s and 60s. He had a grandfatherly beard and a mellifluous tenor voice. A onetime hobo, Ives began his career as a left-leaning folksinger.

His song, There was an Old Lady Who Swallowed a Fly, became a favorite of many in the 50s when I was growing up, a fun sing-along that evoked smiles and good feelings with its rhyming, tongue-twisting verses, each ending with, I don’t know why she swallowed a fly, perhaps she'll die. It was as harmless as a playful puppy, a sign of those days that avoided controversy.

While Ives enjoyed the spoils of popularity, Seeger was exiled for his socialist-communist associations.

Seeger sang for and about oppressed people, those who suffered from having their rights taken from them. He told the story of Victor Jara, a Chilean folksinger-guitar player whose hands were cut off and ultimately died from torture, a victim of Augusto Pinochet's dictatorship in Chile.

During the early 50s, following the War, an anti-communist movement swept the United States, led by Wisconsin Senator Joseph McCarthy. The House UnAmerican Activities Committee (HUAC) held hearings. Many media figures -- actors, filmmakers, screen writers were named as communists or communist sympathizers. Pete Seeger was blacklisted.

Having had American communist associations, Ives volunteered to testify before the HUAC. His willingness to talk and name names saved his career, which flourished. He became well loved and revealed a talent for dramatic acting, winning an Oscar for best male actor in a supporting role in the film, Big Country (1959). A year earlier he had personified Big Daddy, the impassioned patriarch, in a supporting role in Cat on a Hot Tin Roof, based on the play by Tennessee Williams, and featuring superstars Paul Newman and Elizabeth Taylor.

Seeger resented Ives for his HUAC testimony. Seeger was banned on American television until 1960. That’s when I first heard of him. His story, I believed, made him an authentic folksinger representing what was known as the common folk, or working class.

On April 14, 1995 Burl Ives passed away. He was memorialized by many Americans as a beloved folksinger-actor. I happened to be listening to NPR that day. Seeger was being interviewed. He spoke kindly about Ives. The interviewer asked Seeger if he carried hard feelings about Ives because of his testimony.

"No," he said. "There's such a thing as forgiveness." His words rang loud in my mind, resurrecting a a virtue we too often do not hear of.  

Two years earlier, he and Ives, then in a wheel chair, had reunited for the first time since the HUAC ban at a benefit concert in New York City where they sang Blue Tail Fly together, according to legend, a favorite song of Abraham Lincoln. 

Jimmy crack corn and I don’t care, old master’s gone away...

My holiday resolution is to forgive someone very close to me. That someone is me. Maybe then I can forgive another for whom I have held a long grudge. It starts with yours truly.

As more of a Zen practitioner today than a Christian, I see forgiveness as ridding myself of attachment to the past, aligning myself with the present, being momentous, in the flow not fighting it. 

I accept wrongs as a part of life. We all make mistakes, do stupid things. However, as the man said, "There's such a thing as forgiveness." 

Tis the season. A time to forgive. The gift of giving.

Zen saying: You've eaten, now wash your bowl.

* Posts: Inside the Church 10/6/24; Adjusting My Religion 5/18/24

Frida the German Shepherd

Frida at Mono Lake, Calif.

Frida passed yesterday. She went peacefully, the same way she dealt with life. A fierce and natural protector with the soul of a saint, Frida was smart, loyal and graceful; she loved children, she loved Barbara, and most of all, she loved me, more than I deserved. She was an excellent traveling companion. She was my partner and the best friend a person could ask for. There never was a dog like Frida the German Shepherd.

with Barbara and Kevin during Santa Cruz sunset

above Pidgeon Point, Calif.

keeping an eye on me

walking the hallway with Cooper

playing with the pack at Mitchell's Cove

on the endless dog trail in Santa Fe, New Mexico

sniffing for chilis in Hatch, New Mexico

with the boss after a shower

with Coco at the South Rim of the Grand Canyon

with parents at Pidgeon Point Lighthouse

showing her profile

taking a break at Mesa Verde at Four Corners

enjoying sunset with her best friend in Carmel, Calif.

hanging out in Santa Fe, New Mexico with lonesome cowboy

on her bed at home

with Coco at sunset in Bakersfield, Calif.

at the cove during a shorebird feeding frenzy 

with dad at Pogonip labyrinth above Santa Cruz

on the trail with her favorite hiking partner

walking the Strand in Manhattan Beach, Calif.

in the lobby of the Mark Hopkins Hotel in San Francisco at Christmas

playing on the beach at the San Lorenzo River mouth

snoozing on the hardwood

with Barbara enjoying the heat in Palm Springs

with Finn, Samson and Coco at Griffith Park Observatory in Los Angeles

with Summer, Piper and Papa at Martin Luther King Parade downtown Santa Cruz

hanging at home with Mystiko and Viva

on the Bethany Curve trail in Santa Cruz

Frida was a rescue. She walked the earth spreading her gentle presence for about 13 years. I'll miss you, girl. You were the best.

Dog Gone

I've changed my ways a little, I cannot now

Run with you in the evening along the shore,

Except in a kind of dream; and you, if you dream a 

    moment,

You see me there.   -- Robinson Jeffers 1941

Maggie and Bryna with their doggies

In the poem above, Mr. Jeffers takes the voice and perspective of his beloved English bulldog, Haig, who is buried next to his stone house in Carmel. 

One of our deceased dogs, Skyla, and three of our cats -- Pancho, Belle Star and Chiloquin (aka Cheeks) -- lie in rest in our backyard, a veritable pet cemetery.

Our beloved Frida, the German Shepherd, still walks by my side, although slowly while sniffing every scent along our way. Another of our canine companions, perhaps the most remarkable of all, is not buried in our lot. Still, she deserves a story because she was hardly a trusty companion, more like a storm of trouble. Perhaps it all started because of her name, which was Mudshark.

We found her at the local Animal Shelter where she stood out among the other dogs. You could say she had charisma. She was small of stature, with a mixed black-and-tan coat and ears that folded over like Disney's Tramp. You may have thought that her right eye, a bluish white marble, was a sign of good fortune, but I tell you, it was a witch's curse.

Our youngest daughter, Bryna, at the time about 8, pointed her out, and soon after we brought the adorable mutt home. 

Bryna named her Mudshark after a famous sled dog in the Yukon, based on a book she had read.

She was no ordinary dog, as we soon learned. She was untrainable. She was indomitable. She was the Houdini of dogs.

From her markings we figured she had some Queensland in her -- the pattern on her spine was feathered blue and black. Maybe a little Aussie in her, too. I suspect also a trace of dingo.

On New Years Eve of 1990 Mudshark made her debut. As usual there had been a big party at the town clock downtown. At least half the town's folk would gather and close ranks as midnight ticked near. Our family had stayed home to ring in the new year. Except for our newly rescued pet.

Somehow, Mudshark had slipped out. We hadn't noticed until about half-past midnight when a Santa Cruz police cruiser showed up in front of our house, a spotlight searching the property, spreading alarm! What was up?

"It's Mudshark!" said Vanessa, our 16-year-old daughter.

Sure enough. Her head popped up in the window of the cruiser. She had been found at the town clock celebration, picked up by a friendly officer and escorted home like Cinderella in a horse-drawn coach.

We all laughed at the spectacle. It was only the beginning.

Sitting in my dentist's chair some weeks later, I nearly choked when he said to me; "I saw Mudshark the other day trotting down West Cliff Drive."

"You know Mudshark?" I was stunned. And the novocaine had hardly kicked in. Her reputation was spreading.

We had a yard to keep her in, with a gate. How was she getting out?

I built a kennel to keep her in during those times when the kids were in school and Barbara and I were at work. Framed with two-by-fours and covered with a heavy-gauged wire mesh, the kennel door latched tightly closed. The floor was made of half-inch plywood. She had a bowl of water and all seemed fine.

"You'll be staying here today, Muddy," I made sure the latch was hooked and could not be pushed open.

When I returned midday to check on her, the gate was closed and the kennel was empty. There was no sign of damage. Mudshark had disappeared.

That afternoon, Barbara had attended an open house showing at the historic Epworth Victorian up for sale at $5 million. Amidst real estate agents and brokers viewing the spacious quarters of bayview rooms and beautiful wainscoting and luscious fabrics and ornate chandeliers, a smallish scrappy-looking dog scrambled up and down the hardwood stairs.

Barbara pretended not to notice, embarrassed by her unruly pet, and shocked by her surprise appearance.

After careful inspection, I realized that Mudshark had called upon her forceful determination and pushed the kennel door open just enough to slip out and have it snap closed. Attempting a number of fixes to keep the kennel shut tight, I discovered that Mudshark was able to tear apart wire and chew through wood like a beaver.

She wore a name tag, a name that few forgot.

We would receive calls almost daily from the security guard at the Municipal Wharf: "Come and get Mudshark, please." As well as residents from throughout the area -- from Natural Bridges to Beach Hill.

"Mudshark's here."

She seemed to follow the action -- a birthday party, wedding, barmitzva.

Occasionally she would leave for a day or two, show up with her head swollen and cockeyed as if she'd been in a street brawl, sometimes stinking of rotting sea life. Oh, Muddy... The enemy inside her was making her pay.

Determined to contain her, I was finally able to make the kennel escape-proof. That's when she started barking, which created a horrible disturbance for our neighbor who called the police. I once found Mudshark clinging like a monkey to the wire ceiling of the kennel and barking.

This was not good. I took her to the beach to run, but she would simply bark incessantly at anyone throwing a ball. She'd rather bark than fetch, which annoyed many a dog owner. 

There were times when I wanted to strangle her.

As stories of our intrepid dog spread, we met a couple of women who lived in a remote area of Humboldt County who offered to take Mudshark. She would be cared for and have lots of open space to roam.

We said our goodbyes to Mud. Over the next couple of months we received regular postcards informing us of idyllic days spent in the forests and along the creeks with Mudshark. We loved hearing of her splendid new life in Humboldt. After a while, the postcards stopped coming.

Time passed and our lives calmed down without the regular commotion of Mudshark. Then one day Bryna burst into the house.

"I just saw Mudshark!"

It was true. Doggone, if Mud wasn't back in town! She had hitched a ride with some young folks heading down the coast. They had found her hanging around a general store up north, always near the action. She was traveling in a camper bus.

"I've really become attached to her," said the young woman in a tie-dyed shirt. "We named her Redway because that's where we found her."

We weren't about to spoil their trip. Mudshark seemed happy. I swear her oddball eye winked at me.

We don't need a grave stone in our yard to remember the Mud.

Elon Wouldn’t Talk to Me

Shortly following the new millennium, or if you prefer, the year 2000, I spent a fair amount of time in Silicon Valley. I was seeking out companies that might enjoy taking a break from many hours in front of a computer and visiting Santa Cruz for a BBQ beach party.

I was employed as a sales manager for the Santa Cruz Beach Boardwalk. It was a position I would never have dreamed of, yet it fell into my lap in a dream-like way.

First of all, I live in a neighborhood that is very near the Boardwalk. I had spent many a day staring over the water thinking about my next move -- where I might find work -- with the Boardwalk in the background and the wooded Santa Cruz Mountains farther in the distance. A position with the seaside amusement park was the furthest thing from my mind.

Following up on an ad in the local newspaper, I applied and interviewed for a sales position at the amusement park. My most recent employment had been a complete bust, as an ill-defined editorial director for a high-tech public relations firm in Silicon Valley. That lasted six months and our parting had not been pleasant.

I did not mention that job on my resume, which did, however, include a successful sales and project management career of 10-years in the holography industry, based in Santa Cruz with worldwide reach. As is the case with many technology companies, that business ran its course and dwindled to obscurity. Yet the sales figures and account names, including 3M, Proctor & Gamble and the U.S Postal Service, looked impressive.

Following my first interview at the Boardwalk, I received a call from the very nice woman in the HR department. "Thank you for your application," she said. "At this time I'm afraid we're going to have to pass on you."

"I'm so disappointed," I replied without hesitation. "I really want to work for the Boardwalk! I enjoyed meeting you and was looking forward to it."

"You know," she said. "I've never done this before but I've changed my mind. I will schedule you for another interview with our sales director." That next interview included a panel of directors. I gave them my strongest, most positive pitch and won them over. However, I wasn't finished yet. 

I still had to separately convince Kathie Keeley, Sales Director, that I wasn't a stuffed shirt, that I knew how to have, and project, fun. I think my resume was over-the-top corporate appearing, as well as my coat and tie. In a test of my quotient for fun, I rode the spanking new virtual roller coaster, hooting and hollering. Thus began a 16-year employment with a carefully managed company that clearly was not going to fail. My colleagues turned out to be some of the finest, down-to-earth and talented people I have had the pleasure to work with.

So Elon. 

Tesla at this time was only a name and a dream. Google the same. I visited both companies in their early years. I had heard the chatter, but they were too small for what I was after. I wanted big numbers for big beach parties. 

Dressed in an aloha shirt and shorts, I would drive around Silicon Valley looking for prospects that I couldn't find in any other way. I played Travis McGee sleuthing for clues in the streets and alleys of Sil-Valley. New companies with awkward names like Nauto and Nutanix were sprouting up over night as the once agricultural landscape turned soft industrial. Large parking lots filled with vehicles signaled the big fish I wanted to reel in. In sales, it's always about numbers. 

If I couldn't get in through the front lobby, which often was unattended and locked, I walked around back looking for an open door or random person to ask. Most of these plants were cube farms -- large, windowless indoor spaces filled with work cubicles (tiny offices). Perhaps a dog with name like Browser would be trotting around. Maybe a game room with foos ball and ping pong. I walked through practically unnoticed, blending in, looking for a contact, someone who organized outing and events for employees. I sincerely believed that these workers would enjoy a day of fun at the beach. 

Our package included a private area with BBQ lunch with sides and soft drinks -- beer and wine optional -- beach volleyball court and ball, plus all-day unlimited rides. Add-ons included a live band, games coordinator, face painting and more. I emceed all my events with a welcome address and thank you. I loved having the microphone. Back in the office, I created my own persona as Mr. Beach.

During this period, I was also writing freelance articles for South Bay Accent, a slick lifestyle magazine published in Santa Clara Valley since 1978. Many of these pieces were profiles of successful personalities in the valley, in tech, government and sports. The editor asked me to write a profile of Elon Musk, little known at the time, but showing up on the radar.

I knew his offices were on Deer Park Drive in Palo Alto, a posh industrial neighborhood where the Wall Street Journal and Hewlett Packard -- the original Silicon Valley company started by Bill Hewlett and David Packard in a backyard garage -- were now located. I had persuaded several groups from Hewlett Packard to come enjoy a beach party at the Boardwalk. One engineer told me that he had solved two problems while lounging on our beach deck. I used his words as a testimonial. I liked dropping in at the HP lobby where the same male receptionist would greet visitors, including me, with the grace of a cultured maitre'd. "May I fix you a latte or cappuccino ?"

This was early Silicon Valley. And HP was hailed the model high-tech company (see The Hewlett-Packard Way). Yet, the fluid nature of the Valley vaporized even HP. Beach parties ended under Carly Fiorina's reign as CEO.

I contacted Tesla headquarters introducing myself as a writer for South Bay Accent, the lifestyle magazine of Silicon Valley. I proposed an interview with Mr. Musk for a cover feature. At least a real person answered my call. Remember those days?

I researched Elon but information was sparse at that time. He was from South Africa where his mother had been a high-fashion model. She dominated the Musk files.

I called several more times without ever receiving a direct response. It was clear that Elon considered himself too important to give a moment of his time for a local magazine profile. Elon wouldn't talk to me. He had bigger plans. 

Google beach parties at the Boardwalk eventually went from 50 guests to 2,000 guests per division, as the tech giant slowly gobbled up the city of Mountain View. They loved getting away for a day at the beach. Tesla employees, even as the company grew in numbers taking over the old GM-cum-Toyota auto factory in Fremont, never had that opportunity. 

Note: In 2007 the privately-owned Santa Cruz Beach Boardwalk celebrated its 100-year anniversary as the longest running seaside amusement park on the West Coast. We held a gala reception and smashing party in our historic Cocoanut Grove.

 

Exiled in a Strange Land

Outriggers hit the water for an early morning paddle while the hummingbird observes her habitat.

The hummingbird was perched on the very same yarrow limb, facing inland. Each day when I walk to the corner for my morning salutation, we greet each other.

"I see you're waiting," I'll say.

She remains still, her needle-like beak pointing toward me. Sun rising behind her, I cannot see her eyes or finer features. She appears a silhouette.

After a moment or two, she'll flutter around performing her aerial dance, maybe circle me, then head out beyond the cliff over the water and back to her branch.

To her, this morning was like any other, save for the unusually fierce offshore wind that rattled every hanging object in our backyard last night. Election results had been coming in faster than expected and the timing of the blustering offshore seemed ominous.

My morning routine, which typically begins just before dawn in order to service Frida, includes quiet observation of the birds and critters and their routines. A family of raccoons might be crawling one-by-one into the corner storm drain for safety before daylight. Tiny wrens skitter around helter-skelter pecking for bugs and worms. Beyond the animals lies the major force of nature in our midst -- the ocean with its tidal shifts that draw from the moon.

I believe that the natural world around me stays in tune with the tides. The hummingbird knows more than I do. Frida picks up on these forces as well. We humans are so out of touch its ridiculous.

This morning the offshore wind coming from the land had a touch of warmth which means it's been hot inland. The surface of the bay was textured with mini peaks. Surfers like it because the offshore helps shape the waves, giving them a better curl, a hollow tube.

My personal hollow feeling based on results of our National Election last night seemed a smaller deal compared to my surroundings, from the hummingbird to the moon and beyond. We're all in this together.  Of course, as white hetero male on firm ground, I'm privileged. If I were an employed immigrant without the proper papers, I would be very nervous, even frightened. If I were a woman I would feel betrayed. 

Personal freedoms are at risk. What I write could well cause trouble. History shows that under dictatorships, writers are the first to go. Words of dissent are too powerful for authoritarians.

In my lifetime of nearly eight decades, I've only rejoiced over Election results a couple of times. I exiled myself and two daughters to a liberal enclave on the California coast 46 years ago, not knowing what that would lead to. I count my blessings.

Elections are like the tide: they rise and recede, ebb and flow. The ancients who studied such things unencumbered by the noise of electronic media and vicissitudes of modern life tell us that light is the other side of dark. We have reached a dark place.

This is inevitable before the light. Keep the faith. Take a walk in the woods. Keep the light shining within. A resistance is forming.

Note: This blog post was censored by Facebook for "breaking the rules." It seems that Meta (owner of FB and Instagram) fears retribution by the new order.

 

Thanks Joe, Hello Kamala

From the redwood forests to the gulf stream waters... this land is made for you and me. Protect our natural resources and federal lands from oil drilling and development. 

Joe Biden has been the best President of my lifetime. 

He gave us hope. He brought us out of COVID when things were looking pretty bleak. He did so without rancor or vengeance. He didn't mince words, didn't pretend that everything was fine and great because he was in charge and the only one who could save us.

Inflation went sky high, yet Joe had good ideas and programs. Thanks to him and his leadership inflation has come down to pre-COVID level. 

Our infrastructure has been failing and there was a lot of jawboning before him about how devastated things were -- the word from the Great Poser was "carnage.”Rather than big talk, Joe took big action. Roads are being repaired and improved across the country. Jobs are being created. We did not fall into the recession that many economists thought we would.

Our country is finally cruising, flush with new energy. Look at the numbers. Build from the bottom up, he said, "not the top down." The trickle-down economy -- supply-side -- produced a huge gap between the rich and the poor. The trickle never reached the bottom. Those poor folks you see on the streets didn't just appear out of nowhere. They're a result of years of supply-side economics that paid the CEOs grandiose dollars while the little people -- most of them hard working -- had to secure two jobs just to stay afloat. Others turned to drugs and addiction. Yet corporations have flourished, gobbled up the little guys, killed the mom and pops.

Joe has kept us out of war during one of the most dangerous periods on earth. He's bolstered our allies and refused to pander to dictators and autocrats who would have us surrender to fascism. That is, have our nation fall victim to falsehoods, throw the intellectuals who dissent into prisons, poison them, make them disappear, keep them from speaking the truth, while enriching the plutocrats and oligarchs, the wealthy loyalists.

Joe is a decent guy. He admits when he's wrong. Country is more important to him than country clubs. Dictators of our world know he won't bend to their whims. He knows right from wrong. There's no deals being made that sacrifice our freedom and keep us under the foot of an autocrat. He knows who we are and what we stand for.

Has Joe been perfect? No one is perfect. People make mistakes and they own up. They accept losing. That's how we learn. Simple facts. Is he a great speaker? No, he's a doer, an action man.

We've got a climate crisis, a shaky international situation, threats of nuclear war and we cannot afford to have a madman in charge. The risks are too high. Our problems do not stem from too many immigrants. That is a lie and a sham. They stem from an inequality of wealth and lack of strong leaders who can see through the false screens. 

We need a leader who will build us up, not tear us down. Kamala Harris has been watching carefully taking notes, calculating what works for the real people, not the business buddies. Truth is, the other guy with the big-brand name cannot run a business without going bankrupt (6 times). He's made his fortune by selling his brand. It's phony salesmanship, a con, bitcoins and Bibles, not nuts-and-bolts business. His current business strategy is "Drill, baby, drill."

To those who believe in Mr. Big Shot, what has he ever done for you other than make you want to tear our country down? His is an emotional appeal, not fact-based realism. It's television, social media, not reality. Anyone who seeks vengeance, promotes hate, loves to insult people, is not going to help you. He's a bully.

For our future. For our planet. For the good of the world, let's elect a smart, intelligent woman who understands -- a decent, rational person. She's learned from the best and will make it better. She's a fighter.

Business Note: According to the nonpartisan Committee for a Responsible Budget, Trump's proposed lavish spending, his tariffs and tax cuts, will increase U.S. debt by $7.5 trillion, compared to Harris's plans that will amount to $3.5 trillion, through 2035. Talk about inflation! Source: the Wall Street Journal, Oct. 11, Greg Ip's column Capital Account, page 2. 

Now he is saying that the conservative Wall Street Journal has no credibility. In the real world, the WSJ understands business and basic economics better than he does.

Trump has no credibility. He is not fit to be our President. Vote in a winner! Vote Kamala!

Tracy

News arrived today that Tracy passed away. She was a girl I had known since first grade. “I guess you would say that Tracy was the star of our class,” said our longtime friend, Paul. He ended his email with, “We’re dropping like flies.”

Tracy, Paul and I were of the Class of ’65, the heart of the baby-boomers.

By star of our class, Paul was referring to Tracy’s popularity. She was petite and cute. Starting in elementary school, she was considered by an undefined consensus to be the most desirable of all the girls. Tracy was Homecoming Queen of the Class of ’65. She had been on the “court” the three previous years, since her freshman year. It was a given.

I never really knew Tracy. I never talked with her or shared a laugh. She seemed untouchable. Her boyfriends were always older and from other schools. She didn’t associate with my groups, which I guess would be the jocks and surfers. Although I was not much of a joiner. I don’t remember her at any of the school dances or hanging at the beach with the gang. She must have been there somewhere.

Tracy sat in the front of the class. Being one of the taller boys, I was stationed in the back. Plus, the nuns tried to keep the boys and girls apart. Following eight years of co-ed elementary school, we were separated in high school, sent to all-boys and all-girls institutions. I lost track of many girls with whom I’d laughed and enjoyed company, mostly the taller girls. Some I never saw again until Facebook appeared and we found ourselves at the other end of the age spectrum. Tracy was not on FB.

What had happened to her? Was she happy? Did she have children, cute little Tracys? I hope so. I hope she had a good life.

Maybe I would have gotten to know her if we had shared classroom experience in high school. I do know that Tracy married Nick. He was two years older and his family was well-connected with the local social scene. His family seemingly had money and prestige, including a house on Lido Isle in Newport Beach. It made sense that he would go after Tracy, and vice versa. Through the grapevine I heard that Nick and Tracy lost a baby in an unfortunate accident and later divorced. She left town. That was the last I heard, many years ago.

Still, Tracy’s name evokes feelings and memories of my early days. She was a bright star, recognized and bonafide. When I first met my wife Barbara, among other attributes, I was taken by her voice, its stirring resonance, a pitch of certainty and confidence. I told myself, “she sounds like Tracy.” A curious reference from the past.

Oddly enough, when I came back to earth, I realized that I had no idea of what Tracy’s voice sounded like. I heard an association that didn’t exist. I think the association was of a queen. I had met a queen.

The loss of Tracy closes the book on a chapter in my life that I never expected to see end, like the colored sands that the monks in Oaxaca carefully sprinkle on the sidewalks, creating intricate scenes, only to see them swept away with a gust of wind. A reminder of our temporal lives.

Paul was correct. We are dropping like flies. We’ve had the misfortune of losing too many from our class, although the analogy is too pejorative. Think of us as luminous stars, consciously aware of and part of our magnificent cosmos, that shine brightly and dimly and eventually burn out, leaving traces of ourselves in the minds and genes of others all connected to the greater mystery.

Paul said he knew Tracy through Kim, his girlfriend at the time. Kim stayed with Tracy and her family when Kim’s parents moved before she graduated. So we know Tracy was kind-hearted, “a nice person,” said Paul. I regret that I did not know her better.