Mindfulness for a New Year

, 

                                                                                                                                Photo by Helen Lindsey

If enlightenment is not where you are standing, where will you find it? -- old Buddhist saying

I recently received a photograph of a beautiful gate from a friend, Helen Lindsey, with the words "Let's open the gate to a new year." The gate was made of wood with a pagoda-like header, surrounded by lovely plants and reminded me of a gate leading to a Buddhist temple.

It communicated to me a serene, grounded feeling as well as a sense of mystery, and the opportunity to enter a new place.

Gates are of course symbolic of entry into something different. Christianity embraces the idea of gates. There are the Gates to Heaven, where St. Peter checks you in, if you're so fortunate to be on his list. Conversely, there are  the Gates to Hell, and you know what that means, and the character who resides amidst the raging flames, ever ready to tempt your base desires, which supposedly will lead you inside his inferno.

Over the years I have let go of those gates. Letting go of bad juju, however it clings to your person, is advised by my Zen teacher.

My teacher would also point out that you cannot have Heaven without Hell, or good without bad, light without dark. Our duality of language defines its opposite, lest everything be the same. But, if everything is the same why would we want to fight, or steal or win? These are human games we play. We are very clever and much too smart for our own good.

Yet games are fun in themselves. In their essence, we find ourselves. Not to boast or gloat or humiliate but just to be in the moment, that thrill of being alive. To compete for the sake of competing. As cliche as it might sound, “it’s the journey not the destination."

When this Covid thing started there was talk of us slowing down and appreciating the simpler elements of life, like the feeling of sunshine on your skin when you're cold, or the flavor of the first bite of a good burrito, or the sensation of endorphins rushing through your body after exercise,  the comforting sound of a nostalgic song or melody ...

...  or perhaps the touch of the hand of someone you love, or maybe the sensual curve in a work of art or bend in a river, the scent of incense in a quiet room or fresh apple pie in your oven, a knowing smile from a friend, the satisfaction of making something with your own hands.

Handmade gate by Chris Meehan

I believe there is an essence, “life force,” that is inside each one of us, that holds us all together. My Zen teacher calls it a "suchness." It exists outside of language. Our community, our planet and our universe are all part of this totality. 

Have you ever wondered about the coincidences in your life? Why you find yourself among like-minded people? How the fickle finger of fate has determined who you are? Each tiny element in your life has been a factor in forming you.

This is a beautiful thing. We are all different, yet alike. Remember our duality of language. There can be no same without different. This is the irony of who we are. This concept can be embraced through the metaphor of a gate.

Let us open the gate to better understanding of both our limits and our unlimited imaginations and how they can bring us, and hold us, together.

As an elder -- a kupuna in Hawaiian -- I like to believe that I am wiser as the years go by, that I must have learned something over seven-plus decades. My wisdom, if I can be so bold, has taught me to listen, consider, not fall victim to anger, be forgiving of others and myself. I am still working on compassion and understanding and I hope to be there sooner than later.

Twenty-twenty has not been a good year for understanding since our common reality was not only challenged, but called a "hoax," by a false leader.

My teacher would remind me that enlightenment is transitory. Anyone who walks around claiming to be enlightened is most likely a charlatan. 

Here's hoping 2021 will be our year. Simply enter the gate while being mindful of each precious step.

"In making the handle

 of an axe

By cutting wood with an axe

The model is indeed near at hand."

                      from 'Wen Fu' by Lu Ji, Fourth Century AD     

"When making an axe handle

The pattern is not far off."   

                     Ezra Pound, 1915     

"We'll shape the handle

By checking the handle

Of the axe we cut with"

                        Gary Snyder, 1983

Real Men Don't Wear Coconut Bras

Island Joe and the Aloha Boys. PHOTO:BBS

Remember when we could get together and party? Let our hair down and dance around? Rub shoulders, press the flesh and even hug?

Those were the days, my friend, they seem to have come to an end.

At least through this holiday season.

Which reminds me of a holiday gig some years ago at the fabulous Cocoanut Grove Ballroom on the Main Beach in Santa Cruz, the very same ballroom where the Royal Hawaiian Orchestra played on opening night in 1907. Over the years the stage has been graced with the likes of Tommy Dorsey, Benny Goodman, Les Brown, Merv Griffin, Count Basie, the Beach Boys, the Talking Heads and local favorites, the Clamtones.

This was a private affair for employees and guests of the Seaside Company, parent of the historic Santa Cruz Beach Boardwalk.

This annual, gala event was the most well-attended and looked-forward-to occasion of the year for Seaside employees, strewn with good cheer, plenty of tinsel, lots of cool prizes, champagne, cocktails, awards, and a four-entre' banquet with numerous sides the likes of a Las Vegas Strip casino, including carefully prepared desserts under the direction of the grove's exceptional pastry chef. Think fluffy cream puffs, lemon cakes and piled-high decadent chocolate confections. 

Guests were dressed to the nines in their jackets, ties, dresses and gowns. Photos were taken. The Bay View Room sizzled with conversation and good cheer.

With bellies full and moods juiced with libations, let the entertainment begin!

I should preface this section of my story by telling you that I was employed in the Marketing Dept. of the Seaside Company for nearly 17 years, during which I was initiated and became inebriated by the spirit of fun. Having fun was our motto. It was not forced fun, more an organic, spontaneous cheerfulness from the top down.

We were a classic seaside amusement park and our product was nostalgia and FUN!

"Howz it goin?" the president of the company, Charles Canfield, would greet me in the hallway with a big smile. He took me to play golf at his private club. One time he even ran into a ravine covered with poison oak to retrieve my errant golf ball.

"See what he does for you," remarked a fellow golfer.

It was true. It was like being a kid again. The culture brought out my inner child.

So I had this idea. And I had an ukulele and a straw porkpie hat. I convinced two guys in our department to don grass skirts and go on stage with me as Island Joe and the Aloha Boys. Mike, the younger guy, had no problem with the costume, but Marty, was not so sure about dancing on stage in a grass skirt in front of 250 people. At least we didn't ask him to wear a coconut bra.

I would sing the first chorus of Mele Kalikimaka and play ukulele while they danced. Then for the second chorus we would all sing together, just like Bette Midler and Jimmy Buffet had recorded their separate versions of the song. Jimmy was backed up by the Coral Reefers. I had the Aloha Boys.

Sandi Jo from Human Resources hosted the event. Sandi has a great singing voice and a moxie as saucy as the aforementioned Ms. Divine, Bette Midler. She knew how to make President Charles the butt of a good-humored joke.

And, of course, Charles would be in the audience with his lovely wife, often sharing a table with a roller coaster mechanic and a plumber, with their partners. A good president understands humility.

"Please welcome to the Cocoanut Grove stage," announced Sandi Jo,  "Island Joe and the Aloha Boys!"

We ran onto the elevated stage like Peter, Paul and Mary used to do, with high energy and a poignant message. Our message was not so much political as comical. No doubt, much funnier than we realized.

Marty bounced around in his grass skirt with a sublime expression on his face. Mike wiggled his butt and hammed it up. I strummed away and sang my heart out as though I were channeling Bing Crosby. The crowd loved it!

Mele Kalimkaka is the thing to say on a bright Hawaiian Christmas Day

That's the island greeting that we send to you from the land where palm trees sway

Here we know our Christmas will be green and bright

The sun will shine by day and all the stars at night

Mele Kalikimaka is Hawaii's way to say Merry Christmas... a very very Merry Christmas...

a very Merry Merry Christmas... to you!

Following our act, we ran off stage into the dressing room. The guys took off their skirts and I removed my straw hat. We surreptitiously resumed our seats in the audience of dinner tables. Some did not realize who the three performers had been, although they talked it about for weeks and by then we were stars. Or so we imagined.

Those were, indeed, the days, my friends. The Santa Cruz Beach Boardwalk, sadly, has been shut down for nearly a year due to COVID. Jobs have been lost. There was not a holiday party this year.

Here's wishing for an uplifting, healing and fun comeback in 2021! 

Merry Christmas & Happy New Year! 

Mele Kalikimaka to all!

Copyright: Kevin Samson from Silence of the Oranges, working title memoir.

  

The Day I Stood Next to Joe Montana

"Joe," I called. 

The defense was on the field and he was taking a break near the bench, the greatest quarterback of his generation, captain of what would become the best professional football team of the 1980s, the San Francisco 49ers, the most storied in the history of the "city by the bay."

Between us, Hacksaw Reynolds ambled like a hungry gorilla, his torn-up body affecting his gait. They say he hacksawed an automobile for recreation, sliced it up with a saw blade like he sliced through opposing offenses with his flailing arms and legs.

I had media credentials as editor of The News, a weekly newspaper in Santa Cruz County. These were the days when a media pass could get you into press room interviews and on the sidelines of a professional football game. I took full advantage.

The sun was bright, the air thin with a San Francisco-in-December bite to it. The Niners were playing Tampa Bay at Candlestick, a forlorn stadium stuck on a wind-blown point on the water's edge. Home to both the 49ers and the San Francisco Giants, Candlestick on a good day was miserably uncomfortable. During its lifetime from 1960 to 2013 it gave fans a legacy of memories good, bad and inexplicable.

To whit:

SF Giants pitcher Stu Miller is blown off the mound by a nasty gust of wind during the All-Star Game on July 11, 1961.

A Giants fan becomes so inebriated that he tumbles to his death from the upper deck, 1984.

The amazing Willie Mays, the "Say Hey Kid," smashes home runs and sprints around the outfield performing his incredible and unique "basket catch," 1960-71.

That skinny quarterback from Notre Dame creates magic leading the Niners to four Super Bowl seasons: Joe Montana, 1979-90.

What a name! What a football player! A winner! Four Lombardi trophies!

Since its inception, football has anointed its heroes with nicknames: Red Grange was "The Galloping Ghost." There was Alan "The Horse" Ameche, "The Golden Boy" Paul Hornung, Dick "Night Train" Lane. And there was "Hacksaw" Reynolds. Who even knew his first name?

But Joe Montana?  How could you improve on that. The slight, blue-eyed, reddish-haired kid whose legerdemain overshadowed his physical presence, needed a nickname, or so they said. They said he was once a high-jumper.  He had played point-guard in basketball. Now this Super Bowl stuff, last minute passes to win the most important games. The Candlestick winds never affected Joe. He deflected the breezes the same way he eluded defensive linemen. If it came down to third- or fourth-and-one, Joe performed the "quarterback sneak."

A contest was called to give Joe a sobriquet, like all the other stellar football heroes. Fans were asked to send in their ideas, to immortalize the kid.

Herb Caen, San Francisco's famed three-dot-columnist who had admonished those who called his city, "Frisco" -- he made clear it was San Francisco" -- rallied in his column, calling for monikers for Montana.

"I like Joe Cool," pronounced the columnist.

Caen was right on. If Montana were to have a nickname, it had to be "Joe Cool." He personified coolness in the clutch, the proverbial chill cucumber, as fresh as the under-side of a pillow.

Was it the PR department or the Chamber of Commerce that came up with the winning epithet? They declared the quarterback would be called Joe "Big Sky" Montana. 

Wha?

If ever there was a dud winner, that was it. No one ever called Joe, "Big Sky." The name died a quick death, a pathetic PR failure, a dime-a-dozen dream that had no legs.

That day at Candlestick, December 4, 1983, when I saw him up close, Joe completed 21 passes out of 31 attempts for 227 yards, leading the team to a 31 to 25 victory over Tampa Bay. Although he did not throw a touchdown pass, Joe scrambled, in his own inimitable way, 12 yards for a broken play touchdown. It was classic Joe being Joe, drawing magic out of thin air.

Of course he didn't hear me when I called his name. The crowd was too loud and frenzied. I moved in as near as I could get to him, perhaps hoping that some of his coolness would rub off on me. In his red and gold uniform, Joe stood about my height, 6' 1". His legs and arms were thin, unremarkable. Standing on a corner in San Francisco in Levis and running shoes, he could have been mistaken for any Joe Schmo. 

But Joe was no Schmo, anything but.

Some guys are just too cool to be named.

 

Big Wednesday

PHOTO:KCS

For surf, this was the week that was. For three days this past week, waves appeared along our Central Coast the likes of which hadn't been seen in months, maybe years.

PHOTO:KCS

The lines were drawn from the north Pacific setting up a paradise of steeply faced waves that attracted surfers, gawkers, photographers and just about anyone who heard the thunderous noise of breakers near shore and had to have a look-see.

While Middle Peak at Steamer Lane drew the largest crowds in town with mountainous waves as far out as third reef, ripping sets of long peeling waves gave the Westside coastline between Sacramento and Swift streets the appearance of Hawaii, according to one happy surfer.

PHOTO:KCS

"It rarely breaks here, but when it does I need to re-shuffle my deck."

A couple of riders were towed out to avoid paddling through the strong current. 

Both surfing and golf have become more popular during COVID, since they're outdoor sports and allow for reasonable separation of participants. Local surf breaks, especially beginner spots like Cowells, have been inundated with COVID surfers. The parking lot at our public golf course, De Laveaga, has been full daily.

"It's a mad house out there," said Tony Loero, an experienced wave rider who grew up surfing and fishing in Santa Cruz.

Tony has spent his life in the water, including a stint in the Navy when he worked on nuclear submarines. That was enough to give him a few nightmares of how near to nuclear mishap we've been.

"Kevin, you don't even want to know."

Today he volunteers for Operation Surf, a group that provides disabled veterans an opportunity to enjoy the thrill of surfing. Tony is also a popular surf instructor, imparting his savvy understanding of the ocean to beginners of all ages.

"For most of them it's a one-time thing."

Surfing is a lifestyle for locals like Tony. It involves tracking the wind and tides, watching the currents, studying where the sandbars form and the direction of the swells and shape of the waves.

The recent big swell put our lifeguards and first-responders on alert. One rescue involved an experienced local who was knocked unconscious. He survived thanks to the aid of a buddy.

One young wannabe showed up on Thursday when the ocean had settled down. It changes minute by minute.

"It's as flat as a pancake out there," he said. "Yesterday there were huge waves?"

He must have been from Fresno, seeking COVID relief.

The Great Bike Ride

“After a time, habituated to spending so many hours a day on my bike, I became less and less interested in my friends. My wheel had now become my one and only friend. I could rely on it, which is more than I could say about my buddies."  -- Henry Miller, My Bike and Other Friends

I've spent a good part of my life on a bicycle. If I were to calculate my hours on a bike, I bet the time spent would come close to my time spent sleeping. 

It occurs to me that sleeping and cycling have a lot in common.

When we sleep our consciousness travels through cycles from wakefulness to unconsciousness to subconsciousness through dreams to wakefulness again. When we ride a bicycle, our legs spin causing the wheels to turn and subsequently the gears in our head to cycle. The bicycle and sleep account for two of life's great necessities.

At times, while riding a bicycle, I relive periods of youthful exuberance, those halcyon days of self-propulsion riding down a sidewalk, into the street and through the neighborhood, rolling along, smile on the face, wind in the hair and bugs on the teeth. 

There was a period between junior high and college, when bicycles were verboten by the mentality of high school coolness. You didn't want to be caught riding a bike to school, or on a date with your girlfriend. You either rode in a car or hitch-hiked. Buses and bikes were not cool.

So I hid my bike at Richie Ramirez's house less than a block from school. From there, we walked together to the institution of male adolescent mayhem and teenage angst that was Pomona Catholic Boys High School. Ours was an internment under the directorship of clergymen most of whom were fresh off the boat from that cold, green island across the Atlantic known as Ireland.

Sexual frustration by the staff was tempered by punches to the gut and knees to the groin of the male student body. Discipline was augmented by the hands of a few mean-spirited deviants from the athletic department.

Conventional wisdom dictated that you either played football, raced muscle cars on the side streets or partied like it was 1999. But you did not ride a bicycle.

Due to the geography of our Southern California environment, beaches -- sandy, sun-drenched picture-postcard places -- were within our reach. Coastal oases with bikini-clad girls and foamy surf served as our first and foremost refuge.

"Let's ride our bikes to the beach!" I said to my brown-eyed piano-playing friend, Richie. He also played organ in a rock band and he owned a Schwinn 10-speed. We both had 10-speeds. I had purchased mine with paper route money -- $65 -- at Coates Bicycles in Pomona. It was a blue beauty, a Continental.

By automobile, it took about an hour to get to the closest beaches, Newport and Huntington. The auto route required a few highway interchanges through burgeoning Orange County, before it became The OC. A few citrus groves remained. Knots Berry Farm was no longer a farm but not yet a full-scale amusement park. Disneyland was in its prime. The scent of orange blossoms lingered faintly.

By bicycle, it would be a little tricky, but I convinced Richie that it would be an adventure. We could do it. I studied a map to plot our route.

"It'll be bitchin!" I said.

"Bitchin!" he agreed.

We rolled out of Pomona early Saturday on our bikes with sleeping bags strapped to rear racks, heading toward the tiny rural enclave of Walnut and the La Puente Hills beyond. Today this area is plastered with freeways, strip malls and houses. The morning sun spread light over the undulating yellow hills that smelled of horses and hay.

We told our parents that we would be staying at a friend's parents's beach house on Balboa Island.

By mid morning we reached California Highway 39 -- an early road from Azusa to Huntington Beach -- a section of which became Beach Blvd as it ran some 40 miles through a series of cities without distinguishing borders except for their names: La Puente, La Habra, Anaheim, Buena Park and finally Huntington Beach. This would be our long, but straight shot to the ocean.

Beach Blvd. turned out to be a less-than-hospitable road for bicycles. It was a main drag of stop lights and commerce. We had barely begun this section of our journey when oranges were thrown at us. We were nearly run off the road by joy-riders who gunned their car engines and burned screeching rubber behind us.

The traffic noise and heat of the day bore down on us, but we kept on pedaling toward the beach, a distant paradise.

By mid-afternoon with the golden sun in our eyes, we hit Pacific Coast Highway (PCH) where a strong on-shore head wind held us up, blowing a cool breeze in our faces and making harder to pedal. We had reached the Western edge of the continent. On our bicycles! 

We found Balboa Island, the hub of beach vacation fun. Its narrow streets and bustling sidewalks left little space for bicycles, although the aroma of hamburgers and french fries at Jolly Roger's restaurant was more than welcome. We ate juicy burgers. We soaked in whiffs of suntan lotion and sweet candy confections. It was a scene of bare feet, legs and arms and bleached hair.

I'm sure we appeared to be a couple of vagabonds with our sleeping bags, bicycles and sweating bodies. 

"This is the life," I told Richie.

"Yeah," he said, not too convincingly. But we were smiling. We were there, in the moment. With our bikes. 

That night we rolled out our sleeping bags and fell asleep in somebody's back yard. The house was vacant. In my mind, it was never a worry. We were free and mobile on our 10-speed adventure.

The following day it was much hotter as we rode along the same main drag, retracing our route home.

Somewhere in the middle of Orange County between the beach and home, Richie said: "I need to rest." His face was dripping sweat; his flushed brown skin gleamed in the sun. He was exhausted. 

We found a hamburger stand with an awning and shade. Richie stretched himself out on a bench, lying on his back with his eyes closed. I brought him a paper cup of water. He was trembling.

The shade felt good as I allowed myself to relax and keep an eye on Richie, who had fallen into state of stillness. His trembling had stopped, which reassured me. We must have traveled at least 80 miles yesterday and today and we were still a long way from home.

Because I was not tired it crossed my mind that Richie just wasn't in very good shape. I was hardly sympathetic. Even a bit perturbed with the interruption. We were so unprepared for any disruption. When I look back, I realize that he was likely dehydrated and his condition could have been severe. Much worse than I was able to admit.

After about a half hour of recuperation, he said, "Okay, I think I'm ready to ride." He rose slowly from the bench, a resurrection of spirit and will. We took it fairly easy the remainder of the way.

We crossed the hills and pedaled into Pomona Valley at the foot of Mt. Baldy, although we rarely saw the mountain during the summer when the dingy, stinking brown smog backed up against the San Gabriel Mountains. Unleaded gas has changed that, one of the best things ever for the air quality of Southern California.

We had completed our round-trip, full cycle, to the beach! It wasn't anything we could brag about. It sounded insane. But it was an accomplishment that we shared and fondly remember to this day. I couldn't have done it without a friend like Richie. I was impressed by his comeback on the ride home. Today he runs 10K races, while I settle for the cushion of a bicycle saddle, forever attached to the two-wheeler.

That evening, I gazed at my reflection in the mirror, which I hadn't seen in two days. I saw an unfamiliar, dark face the color of a purple onion. I was sunburned to a crisp and I loved it. 

"I even got burnt," Richie told me later.

I had proved to myself the power and independence we had on a bicycle.

© Kevin Samson, Silence of the Oranges, a working title memoir

The Shorts & Longs of It

My dog Frida and me on a balmy winter day in Manhattan Beach

My late good friend John Gilchrist would not be caught without his shorts on.

I'm talking about outer shorts, not under shorts.

Through rain or sleet or hail or snow, John wore his shorts as a statement. Although he never explained that statement, I knew him well enough to understand that it was his way of expressing independence and lifting a middle finger toward convention.

I don't believe he owned a pair of long pants. He lived most of his life bare-legged, with a wry smile on his face.

Today, it seems that a good percentage of the male population are wearing shorts, and will continue to do so through the coming winter. Come hell or high water.

Google "men in shorts" and you will see a gallery of male adults, many in GQ-style jackets and shirts, exposing an array of hairy knees and calves.

Is it a "chick magnet?" 

Or "just men being men."

"My legs don't get cold," says one proud shorts-wearing guy from New Jersey.

Some say it's macho. Full-length slacks and jeans are for babies.

When I hear that, I think to myself: Wild Bill Hickock didn't wear shorts. Superman wore tights not shorts. I never saw Paul Newman in short pants. James Bond doesn't prance around in Bermudas. 

Bare-legged macho stride

Some men retire and don shorts for the rest of their lives, but who wants to brag about being retired? Why not just wear pajamas.

"Shorts are more comfortable," is the most oft-heard explanation from men who wear shorts.

Granted, when I'm in Hawaii, I wear board shorts, ever ready to dive into the ocean for a refreshing cool-off. 

If you dive into the frigid Pacific in Santa Cruz you had better be wearing more than board shorts, dude, or prepare for a case of hyper hypothermia. 

Still, the question of whether to go long or short has been a minor conundrum for me. 

That hasn't stopped me from pulling on a pair of cargo shorts, currently on the "very bad choice" fashion list. 

But who's into fashion? If I'm going to be puttering around in the yard on a hot day, I like a place to put my things. Like in a cargo pocket. 

I always seem to have a lot of things: cell phone, tape measure, clippers, keys, pocket knife, screwdriver, pair of gloves, sunglasses, reading glasses, a glass of water (scratch that last one). I put my canister of water on the table next to the lounge chair and always forget where it is.

Hey, I'm not perfect. And I like shorts. But year-round?

It works in Florida

Actually, I've never tried it for the entire year. Maybe I'll start on December 1. I'm sheltering anyway. It's not like I'll be going to any galas or anything. My social calendar is, as Larry David would say, prittay, prittay spare. Come to think of it: I've never seen him in short pants.

If I get really cold I can always pull on a pair of long socks. But that would be cheating, wouldn't it? The whole idea is to show off your bony legs. 

And what about those guys who wear shorts over tights! Lame. As cousin Jimmy says: "You can't have it both ways."

Why not slip into a pair of comfortable long trousers. A pair of Levis. 501's. Red color for hipness. What am I trying to prove?

I know what John Gilchrist would say. He was very good at throwing out playful insults, while walking around in shorts.

"Lose the long pants, Samson. They make you look older than you are."

Easy for him to say. He lived in Santa Barbara.

Accepting Loss

More than a quarter of a million people in the U.S. have died from Covid since March. They say that most every citizen knows of someone who has perished from the disease. We learned of two such deaths last week.

These weren't people that we know, but they were family members of someone we met, a furnace installer from nearby Watsonville. 

"People say it's no big thing," he told us. "But I tell them it's real. I tell them my story."

As soon as he vacated our premises, Barbara and I looked at each other, our eyes as large as saucers.

She immediately went to work sanitizing everything he had touched. We aired out the detached room where he had been working. Of course we had been wearing masks and only momentarily within six-feet of him.

Covid cases are rising by the hundreds almost every day in Santa Cruz County as we draw near Thanksgiving, a favorite holiday of our spread-out family. It's a time when we try to get together. Not this year. Not in person.

I am thankful that our family are all healthy, but it is a loss and sacrifice not to be able to touch them and feel their physical presence. I want to joke around with my grandchildren, watch their eyes light up and their expressions turn to smiles.

As an old guy who has been sheltering for months, I can't think of anything I'd like more. I never had grandparents, three of them had died before I was born, the other not too long afterward. I fear my grandkids will lose out, too. By the time we can get together they won't be kids any more. 

Times are very strange and I'm old enough to have already lost a few good friends and a spouse, and I'm cruising through the "at risk" demographic of septuagenarian. I accept the pandemic. I've made peace with my losses.

Which brings me to this curious election situation. Our two, and only, choices for President of the United States in the confounding year of 2020 were both seventy-something old white men. The two oldest dudes ever to run for president. It's crazy.

The guy who won, at least, is able to talk about his losses -- three children and a spouse. And how many attempts at running for president did he lose? Yet here he is, the president-elect. He accepted loss and moved forward. 

The other guy, who's lost a brother and a few casinos and now an election, cannot accept loss. He refuses to acknowledge that he is not the winner. His pathology is very clear.

Thousands of his supporters gathered in Washington this past week to protest the election, claiming that he won, that the election was stolen, blah blah blah. The reason they believe this is because the old guy tells them so. It makes them feel better. They take whatever he says at face value. It makes the old guy feel better to see them applaud him, and that's really all he wants.

At the expense of the truth, at the expense of his country and the expense of a pandemic.

Grow up, old man. It’s a good day to lose.

How Do We Spell Relief?

Joe Biden has been elected President of the United States with 290 Electoral Votes. President Donald Trump has not conceded and will likely contest the results.

The sound of spontaneous hurrahs spread through the open air at the Santa Cruz Farmers Market on Saturday morning. Dozens of masked shoppers turned to each other, their shining eyes telling the story that Joe Biden had reached the magic number of electoral votes to defeat the current President.

No four more years!

The man who, in his own words, had done more for black people in the United States than anyone except for maybe Abraham Lincoln, will not be doing a Trump Show State of the Union next year.  Steven Bannon will not be receiving the National Medal of Freedom.

Pristine National Wildlife areas will not be handed over to the oil industry.

Vladimir Putin will not be more trusted than the United States Intelligence Agencies.

Toadies like Mike Pence, Bill Barr and Mike Pompeo will not be licking the King's boots.

Criminals like Roger Stone will not be pardoned for trading secrets with foreign countries and lying to Congress.

White Supremacists will not be called "very good people" by the Chief Executive of the U.S.

Dark-colored people from countries to our south will not be separated from their children at our border.

Young people in the U.S. who were born here will not be deported because they are not official citizens.

All citizens of the U.S. will not be kept in the dark about the real dangers of an imminent pandemic.

Our military men and women will not be called losers when they are wounded, killed or tortured.

Cities with impoverished ghettos created by racial bigotry will not be dissed nor will their mayors because they belong to the opposing political party.

Our national leader will not hide his personal tax returns from the American people.

Our national leader will not leverage his executive office for the profit of his own personal business interests.

Our national leader will not hold back Congressionally approved funds to a foreign country until that country agrees to investigate his political opponent.

Environmental protections will not be deregulated for the sole sake of capital investment.

The language of the Chief Executive will not be arrested at the level of sixth grade.

Our national interests, international standing, constitutional liberties and protections will not depend on partisan interests of the Chief Executive.

We will not suffer the lies and cons of an adult who acts like a petulant child.

Because the current President will behave badly until his term ends, it will be necessary to hold ourselves together for a little more than a month, during which time many unseemly shenanigans will be attempted. Republican Sen. Lyndsey Graham, South Carolina, has reportedly pledged $500,000 to help Trump overturn the election. Just sayin.

Keep the thought: he will soon not be our President anymore.

Post Election Blues

I believe I've gotta a case of post election blues. Four days after the General Election without a declared winner has left me in a weird bubble of nada.

My left ear itches and the right side of my jaw hurts. The second toe on my left foot feels like I kicked a steel post and my right knee is numb.

I have no feeling in my upper cranium.

My sense of smell is very bad. Everything seems to stink.

My iPhone erupts every five minutes with an alert that does not tell me anything I don't already know.

Although I thought Biden had won Arizona. That was Election night. I swear I saw that on my screen. The next morning Arizona was grey not blue, waiting for more votes. As of today, Arizona remains unknown.

The President, in his usual unhinged way, declared he had won the Election, said there are some very bad people. He said "fraud." He tweeted "STOP THE COUNT". He's got a thing for all caps. And lawyers. He loves to sue. There would be no fraud if he were winning.

Quote of the week, from one of his handlers: "No one wants to tell King Lear that he he's losing."

I scrambled a couple of eggs. Not my usual breakfast. 

I have done more yard work in the past three days than I did all last year. I have been tediously clipping leaves by hand. My right hand has been nipped and clipped by branches, drawing blood that flows in bright red streams over my knuckles. The back of my hand is full of those purple marks I get on my arms when anything touches me.

I have not been able to write anything. I simply look for results. Election results. It's been the same for three days: Biden 253, Trump 214.

I want to keep moving not writing.

I watched hours of news, Netflix, even the 49er football game, while performing jumping jacks and tai chi moves in my living room. I practiced yoga on the floor.

I hit a bucket of golf balls. I drank a bunch of beers.

I stayed up all night reading and couldn't remember what I had read. I think I was dreaming. The strangest people from my past have been making cameos in my subconscious. I'm afraid to find out what that means.

The earth-rumbling sound of the bulldozer shoveling rocks next door and pouring them into dump trucks for three days has given me an eye twitch.

The shower in the bathroom continues to drip. I changed the shower head but that didn't help. I checked YouTube for repairing a single-lever shower faucet and discovered I would need about 33 tools. I have about four tools but I don't know where they are: probably under all those boxes in the garage that we had to move due to construction in our studio.

My body is sore from all the bending, digging, hedge-trimming, sweeping. lifting, crawling into the attic, chasing possums in my back yard.

Still, the Election results are not in.

Just a few more days. Joe says have patience. The emperor has filed more lawsuits. The lavender plant needs to be trimmed. I would love to see Georgia turn blue.

UFO Floats Over Hawaii

Telescope on Haleakala captures debris of streaking booster, not related to Oct. 24 sighting

A mysterious object shaped like a whale with flashing lights floated over the skies above Hawaii on Saturday, Oct. 24. Many who witnessed the flying object were convinced that it was a space ship from outer space.

"I know it was a space ship from another planet," said one observer on Kauai. Like-minded observers agreed that what they witnessed was an interplanetary ship. 

The occupants of said ship were likely benign visitors checking things out on the magical island chain.

Wait a minute. Could they not have been malicious invaders, ready to take a sampling of the human species home for dinner? That concept was explored by the late great Rod Serling in one of his Twilight Zone episodes.

What appeared to be an opportunity for a gay holiday on a distant planet, turned out to be a grocery run for the odd-looking visitors from space.

Nearly  6,000 strange sightings were reported in the skies of the U.S. and Canada during 2019, according to the National UFO Reporting Center, an increase of almost 2,500 such sightings during 2018.

The Reporting Center simply counts sightings, without further information. No follow up is done. These sightings could be anything from a planet to a red-and-green lighted drone shooting video of your neighborhood.

"Many people are not aware of astronomical goings on in space," according to a spokesperson for the UFO reporting center. "For instance, Jupiter and Venus have been more visible in the night sky."

Space X -- an Elon Musk enterprise -- launched 180 new satellites last year. Satellites currently crisscross the heavens, appearing like bright moving stars at night. The sky is becoming as congested as the Los Angeles freeway interchanges.

The UFO that was sighted over Hawaii was, according to Professor Richard Wainscoat of the University of Hawaii, most likely the re-entry of a spent rocket booster that launched a Venezuelan satellite, Venesat-1.  Venezuela? Who knew?

Wainscoat surmised that the spent rocket has been circling Earth since its launch in 2008, 12 years ago! That's not the satellite itself, but the launcher. Outer space may very well be more crowded than our freeway systems!

According to the Union of Concerned Scientists, which maintains a database of active satellites in orbit, as of April 1, 2020, there were a total of 2,666 satellites in space, of which 1,918 were in low-Earth orbit. The United States has 1,308 satellites in orbit, followed by China at 356, Multinational 177 and Russia 167. More than half of the satellites in space are for commercial purposes.

Wainscoat says that debris of used rockets, like the one that launched Venesat-1, come back to Earth. The so-called Spacecraft Cemetery, where many of these craft ultimately de-orbit, is located in the Southern Pacific Ocean at Point Nemo, the oceanic point of inaccessibility, farthest from any land.

In the big picture, the Hawaiian islands are practically neighbors of the Spacecraft Cemetery.

These scientific facts are not necessarily fun or mysterious. They spoil the creative musings of the imagination. We would rather believe in something grand and mystical, or dark and sinister. The raft of conspiracy theories today points this out. 

Many of these theories involve UFOs, including perhaps the most curious conspiracy that man did not land on the moon: that first landing of Apollo 11 with Neil Armstrong and Bud Aldrin on July 20, 1969, was merely a simulation filmed in the desert.

We can make a conspiracy out of anything.

Happy Halloween!

Zen in the 21st Century

Nearly completed modern house next door.

Mornings are getting colder, dipping toward the 40s. The swimming buoys are gone. The angle of the sun is changing, staying closer to the horizon. Next door to our 1940s post-war bungalow home, construction of two, yes two, 21st Century Modern homes is nearing completion. 

We have referred to the two-and-a-half-story high structures as the Trump Towers, the Hotel and most recently the Monsters. They are a curiosity on our street when walkers pass by. Sometimes a car will slow down and someone will open their window and snap a photo.

"Is that a hotel?" is the question most often heard. Others include:

"What is that?"

"How many units are there?"

"I feel sorry for you."

"I said a prayer for you."

"It's good you guys are so mellow. If I lived next door I would be going out of my mind."

During construction

As much as the building next to us has blocked the eastern sky from our view, we feel fortunate that our southern exposure has not been lost. Most of the day our home is not shaded. Our backyard feels more like an enclosed courtyard. We have enjoyed more than 30 years of comfortable living in our house that is less than a block from the ocean. It seems ungrateful to complain.

Change is inevitable. Santa Cruz has been known for its small cottages, 19th century Victorians, craftsman houses, and vernacular styles blending shingles and stucco. The 21st century has introduced a bold modernism of rectangular shapes, floor-to-ceiling windows, hidden decks and obtuse dimensions.

We have become acquainted with the site manager, a friendly guy, employed by the owner who is a developer from Palo Alto. The site manager oversees the various contractors involved in building the enormous complex of two large houses each with a detached living unit in back. Very little open space remains.

"It's not my style of architecture," says the site manager. Maybe he's embarrassed. He says people have asked about the plans, indicating that they would like to have similar style home built. It's the latest thing. Silicon Valley is moving in from over the hill.

The median price of a home in our once sleepy middle-class neighborhood is more than $1 million. I've heard that the place next door will go for about $4 million. We bought our house in 1990, right after the Loma Prieta Earthquake -- when some houses in town were destroyed. We paid $300,000 for our two-bedroom, one-bath house which had lost its chimney. We've since added space, a second bathroom and remodeled our kitchen.

Our house appears rather meek and unsubstantial on our block of mostly two-story structures.

In an earlier post (Tender Goodbye 7/19), I talked about the house next door on a spacious lot with fruit trees and gardens. It was a  one-story Spanish Revival style with a long front porch built in 1938. It was demolished in order to build the two towers. The elderly couple who had been our neighbors both passed away and their family inherited the property which is 113-ft wide.

Dutra House built in 1938, before demolition

We wrote a nice letter to the family asking if they would sell us a 10-ft strip of the property so that we would have more space for our driveway and possibly enlarge our one-car garage. They declined, feeling that would lessen the value of their lot, which they intended to sell.

The standard parcel size for a home on our block is 50-ft wide. I pointed out that they could sell a 10-ft strip to us and still have lot (100-ft wide) that could be subdivided into two parcels.

"The lot wouldn't be worth as much," said the head of the family.

"We will pay you. Name a price."

"Sorry."

They sold the lot for $2.2 million. The new owner was an engineer for Instagram, a friendly guy. I approached him with our offer to purchase 10-feet of the property. He, too, declined. He said he wanted to build his dream house on the lot. A few months later I learned that he sold the lot to someone else for $2.4 million.

When I asked him what happened, he said,"It was going to cost me so much time and money. And I found a house in Marin County that was perfect, so I bought that one."

We composed a letter to the next owner -- the Palo Alto developer -- asking if we might purchase 10-feet of his new lot.

"No," he said, "My architect needs all of the space for our project."

I have learned over the years to detach and let go of things that pester the mind, especially things over which I have no control. I have embraced a form of Zen Buddhism that focuses on the present, not the past or the future, but what is now, this moment.

People will be people. Our culture has many problems. The three poisons of the mind are greed, anger and delusion. Let them go.

I love my home, my family and the life I have been given. Perhaps I will learn to love the big houses next door. Presently, I can still hear the fog horn and feel the warmth of the sun on my skin on a cold morning in fall.

Now for some primal screaming!  

October Light

Did you see the sun this morning?

It was melting gold as large as a pink grapefruit in an orange sky. Just over the horizon, above the mountain ridge. Beyond the quiet bay.

So many gawkers and walkers and talkers, many with their iPhones pointed easterly to capture the magnificent orb. Air temperature was already above 60 and it's mid-October.

Supposed to be 97 today! Is that possible?

No waves. I had already checked for signs of white water during dawn's early light. The ocean is quiet. No storms yet. Earlier in the week there was talk of rain, but that was... a mirage. A meteorological moon dance.

There is no moon at night, only a round shadow and a disappearing crescent.

Tides, pulled by the moon, are becoming extreme -- highs and lows. A good time for beach combing.

I recall that first October in Santa Cruz, 1978, when the air felt like the inside of a refrigerator. Or so it seemed, as I ran along the foot paths, bare-legged, light-shirted, over sidewalks, through the corridors of the Pacific Garden Mall, over the asphalt roads into the Brussels sprout fields. I was Forrest Gump. I just kept running...

I don't run anymore.

October. 

Witches and goblins are appearing, freaky-looking clowns and belligerent pirates with swords _ "arghh"!! Halloween is nigh, bigger than ever. We're dying to celebrate. Anything! The Freak Show in Washington is too scary. We must create our own faux nightmare to replace the real one.

Seventeen days until Election Day. 

Sleepy Hollow. The Headless Horseman. Icabod Crane.

Separated, we stand, amid pandemic and partisan. Together we grieve. We Zoom. What happened to the Beatles? It's been a hard day's night.

The SCOTUS is going 6-3 conservative. RBG has left the room. The originalists are coming! Grab your gun! Hide your children!

Hold on. It's only October. Enjoy the light. Be in the moment.

I am reminded of Thomas Mann's 1924 novel The Magic Mountain whose protagonist, Hans Castorp, is a recent college graduate on his way to his first official job. He stops at a sanatorium in Davos, Switzerland to visit his ailing cousin. Castorp develops minor bronchial congestion and is advised to stay and recuperate. He meets a cast of intriguing characters and ends up staying in the sanatorium for seven beguiling years! Among his fellow patients is Mynheer Peeperkorn, a boastful, self-absorbed dandy who speaks in riddles and is unable to finish a complete sentence, a Trumpian persona yet worthy of sympathy.

Peeperkorn drives himself to suicide.

We are stronger and more centered than Peeperkorn.

Did you see the sun this morning?

Radio Daze and KFAT

Turn up your radio 

And let me hear the song

Switch on your electric light

                                            -- Van Morrison

 

Before YouTube and MTV, there was radio. My first radio was a transistor, the size of package of cigarettes. I earned it by selling subscriptions to the newspaper I delivered in a canvas bag slung over my shoulders. My transistor radio was bright orange. I carried it with me during my route so that I could tune in Chuck Berry and Fats Domino while I traipsed through the neighborhood tossing papers on porches. But the trouble was, the signal kept dying and I rarely heard an entire song.

Then there was the clock radio next to my bed. I woke up and went to sleep by it -- sometimes listening to a Dodger game. But most of the time it was tuned to KFWB, KRLA or KHG, all AM, all rock n roll. Rock music in those days included R & B, bubble gum, popular, surf, Motown, some folk even a tad of jazz, like "Take Five" by Dave Brubeck. There were no music categories. The songs were mixed together by the DJs.

Then came FM radio, stereo music transmitted over the airwaves. Wow! In early 1970 we were living in San Jose. The hippest rock station came broadcast from San Francisco, KSAN. It was a talisman that kept you informed as well as entertained by disc jockeys with clever names like Dusty Street and an acerbic news reporter named Travus T. Hipp.

The airwaves slowly became more predictable. These were commercial stations. FM radio also introduced publicly supported programing including PBS which offered a news magazine format that helped attract listeners.

This story, however, is about a commercial radio station that suddenly appeared during the mid-Seventies and broke all the "rules" during a time when rules were becoming the radio norm. Music categories had developed and stations were narrowing their playlists, to the point of near automation. KSAN eventually became a country music station. Out of San Francisco!

Enter Lorenzo Milam and Jeremy Lansman, a couple of off-beat "geniuses" who saw opportunity buying and selling radio stations. Small stations with weak broadcast signals that couldn't compete with the big dawgs were going up for sale.

One such radio station was KSND in Gilroy, California. Where and what is Gilroy? Good question. You may have heard of the Gilroy Garlic Festival. Its existence is also part of the story of this unique radio station, renamed KFAT by Lansman and his crew. Their station ID became, "This is K-F-A-T Gilroy, Garlic Capital of the World."

No more than a fraction of an inch away from KSAN on the radio dial, KFAT radio began broadcasting a country-style of music popular in West Texas with artists like Willie Nelson and Rodney Crowell, Waylon Jennings and Delbert McClinton. You might hear a guy named Kris Kristoferson and a gal named Emmylou Harris back-to-back, followed by a racy commercial for an adult bookstore. You knew right away that the horny-sounding commercial was not your typical slick radio ad.

I was employed as entertainment editor for a 65-year-old daily legal newspaper, the San Jose Post-Record (which is still being published). I had lots of leeway regarding my choice of stories, and lots of space to fill. I contacted KFAT radio in Gilroy, about 20 minutes south of San Jose, believing this would be an interesting piece. It was. It was also disjointed and strange, reflecting what I found out when I visited the station in a funky upstairs "closet" in Gilroy and later met Jeremy Lansman in tony downtown Los Gatos.

"You can buy a radio station and sell it for a nice profit," he told me when I asked him about his motivation or purpose behind KFAT. He was the most unlikely businessman you could imagine, from his messed up hair to his bare feet. A very un-Los Gatos look.

The type of music KFAT played was termed "progressive country," by his wife Laura Ellen. It was a hodge podge that included old, little-heard records from the original low-wattage Gilroy station. KFAT also introduced listeners to story-teller Utah Philips, whose "Moose Turd Pie" became the most requested "song" on KFAT, ever. 

The real story of KFAT radio is now in book form -- "Fat Chance" -- authored by Gilbert Klein, who was a member of the improbable-yet-lovable KFAT crew. Klein developed his own unique program called "Chewing the Fat." He's a wonderful wordsmith and he's done a magnificent job. "Fat Chance" was published in 2016.

Fat-heads, or Fatties, will want to peruse this nearly 600-page volume of goodies about the station and its characters (includes photos!). I learned that Lansman was an electronics wizard who one night hooked up a transmitter on the highest peak in the Santa Cruz Mountain range, Loma Prieta, which enabled the KFAT signal to reach the entire Bay Area and beyond from podunk Gilroy. It became the most popular radio station in Santa Cruz County and drew a wide audience from the surrounding region.

If you're interested, read the book. Oh, Lansman paid $150,000 for the little station that sold about five years later for more than $3 million! 

Last Wave:

KFAT introduced a new music genre to radio, known as Americana. Although the station is now defunct, its boot prints have been filled by KPIG radio with much of the same off-beat humor and music. And KPIG relies on real disc jockeys, including one or two from those Fat Days of yesteryear.

I Smell a Rat

Every morning for the past several months when I woke up the first thing I asked was, "Does he have Covid yet?"

It was a question I kept close to home. I didn't broadcast the matter, just wondered how is it that he has not contracted the novel coronavirus. 

There was that indoor rally in Tulsa that left a few attendees infected, but not his maskless self. The rallies and insults continued like a traveling nightmare.

When I saw the gathering in the Rose Garden at the so-called Republican Convention with rows of seats tightly filled with bodies of uncovered faces, I couldn't help but wonder. What's going on? There he was again, his jowly porcine face not wearing a mask, his body slumped over a lectern, expounding about all of the hoaxes that plagued him.

But not the virus.

And all those Republicans crammed together like little chicks in a box. Weren't they slightly worried about the contagion of a pandemic that had already ended the life of more than 200,000 Americans.

He's supposedly a germophobe. You'd think he would be wearing a hazmat suit. Behind the scenes, was he scrupulously cleansing himself, with his stewards fussing about him with spray bottles of sanitizer, Hydroxychloroquine and penetrating flashlights. Just last week we learned that he wrote off $70,000 of taxes for hair grooming.

Surely, he was being more careful than he let on.

Or, and that's a big OR, was Covid-19 really a hoax? Fake news? A Democratic Party conspiracy?

And now this. Thirty days before the General Election he announces, on Twitter, that he and his wife have tested positive for Covid-19. Really!? Next thing you know he's going to Walter Reed Hospital for observation, with mild symptoms.

Given his penchant for exaggeration and obfuscation, how are we expected to believe this?

Is this the October Surprise? Trick or Treat?

On one hand, it smells like a dirty trick, to gain sympathy, and with a quick recovery, announce that Covid is no big deal, just like he told us. He even got the "girls" to go in on it -- Hope, Kellyanne and Melania. They all tested positive. Supposedly.

Strange.

On the other hand, the hand that I have been making a fist with all along, it was simply a matter of time and exposure before he of the cavalier macho-man mindset would be victim to the nonpartisan virus, that knows only a 74-year-old obese man is an easy target.

In this unreal year of 2020, I remain a skeptic. I am liable to believe anything or nothing. After that thing they called a debate last week, something's got to shut him up.

At least temporarily.

Day at the Opera

Beneath Old Glory

in U.S. Capitol rotunda

where Abraham Lincoln the great

Emancipator lay 155 years ago,

RBG, Ruth Bader Ginsburg

the great Equalizer rests, finally.

Her soul has risen and joined

her colleague Antonin Scalia, 

the great Originalist,  for

today's Opera by Denyse Graves.

The two Justices hover above, like angels,

tears trail down heir ghostly faces

"Her voice comes straight rom the Lord,"

he says, wiping cheek with his gown sleeve.

"Yes, from the heart," says RBG. "But why 

do you make the Creator a man? How

do you know?"

"Ah, Ruthie," "You're up to

your old tricks. You never give up."

"Tony," she says, "You are the trickster."

They both laugh.

"Isn't it wonderful," he opines. "We hold firm our

principles, yet revel in passion with

the aria, so profound."

RBG replies with judge's resolve,

"Art is from heaven and surpasses opinion,"

"That note you left about your greatest

wish, that your seat not be filled before

the election. Did you really believe 

the President would honor that?"

"Tony, funny you should bring that up. I

truly believed I would not be watching

this performance. But just in case, I

wrote it down."

"You know Ruthie, we are given chances 

to act honorably or not. Man is imperfect and

will too often grasp his own advantage first

and construct an argument to defend himself."

"Tony, you know my position regarding equality

for all. How can we find fairness if we stack

the deck before listening to the all the players? 

The game is skewed for generations."

"Denyse really has some pipes," says Tony, 

returning the subject to opera, gazing over the

solemn scene below them as her magnificent

voice resounds reaching every corner of the room

and viscera within the body.

 

He leans in and whispers, "You're right."

"

"

All Things Being Equal

All human beings without exception are in reality homeless. It's a mistake to think we have a solid home."--  Roshi Kodo Sawaki

At 6:30 Pacific Time this morning the sun was exactly above the equator. Day and night are of equal length today, which is called the Autumnal Equinox. Our planetary alignment with the sun is equal. We should be in perfect balance. And we are.

Yet one would be led to believe just the opposite, what with Covid-19 spreading around the planet, wildfires torching the Western U.S., a hurricane flooding the Gulf states, protests in the streets, authoritarian strongmen running many countries and a butt-load of inequality among so many of the Earth's people.

If I were a religious man I would surmise that the world was coming to its proverbial finish line. Game over. The end. I have never heard the word "apocalypse" used so many times in one day as two weeks ago when daylight was colored orange. It was eery.

But I look around on this first day of Fall and I see blue sky not smoke. I breathe in air that holds the freshness of late September. I am one of the lucky ones who is able to sleep in his own bed in his own room in his own house tonight, next to the one I love.

Is this not Heaven?

Yesterday I passed a middle-aged man who was climbing out of his trailer parked at the edge of town where he had spent the night. He smiled at me and said, "Good morning."

I spied another sweeping the debris from the perimeter of his van where he is living. I heard music and noticed a woman dancing on a rug on the street.

This morning I was sitting on my surfboard soaking in endorphins I had aroused in my brain by paddling to the Rivermouth and back. The fog was playing hide and seek. The wind had just begun to move. I heard a loud splash in the water behind me. A brown pelican had just dive-bombed a small fish, carried it away clutched in the throat of its dagger-like beak. Another swished over my head, its feathers spread like a B-52, practically skimming the ocean's surface.

I was in the moment. They were in the moment. The moment is now. 

It's the equinox. Days become shorter and storms begin to brew up north near Alaska, which means winter swells and waves come to town.

We'll get it together. We just need to point our noses in the right direction.

Reading in Shelter

During a recent phone conversation with a friend from my past, I was asked what books I had read recently. That is one of my favorite subjects and if you ask my wife you will hear about my habit of going into a painfully long dissertation of my latest read. This time, however, my voice failed me. I had to stop and think. 

"I read one about the history of rock 'n roll," I answered

Hello. I thought later. Even at the time it sounded pretty lame.

My old pal on the other end of the line had just explained the powerful impact he had taken from Isabel Wilkerson's book, The Warmth of Other Suns about the Black migration from the South between 1915 and 1970.

"It's a part of our history that I was not familiar with," he said, recalling the little we had learned about the "Jim Crow" South in our high school history class.

"Chicago's crime problem is not he result of Democratic mayors," he added. "It's disgraceful."

When I got off the phone, I Googled "Isabel Wilkerson" and discovered that she is a Pulitzer-Prize winning journalist and best-selling author. How did I not know that? I went to Amazon and ordered The Warmth of Other Suns.

I confess, although I read books, I don't buy many. However, due to our confinement during "sheltering" and the closure of our libraries, I have recently discovered the ease and pleasure of purchasing books online.

So what have I read recently? I had to stop and think. Following is my list, to the best of my memory, of the books I've taken to bed with me at night, with a brief description of where I found the book and what I took away from it.

The Pearl (1945) and To a God Unknown (1937) by John Steinbeck. For my birthday last year we visited the John Steinbeck Center in Salinas where I purchased these two books that I had never read. A novella, The Pearl is a wonderful story of human nature, good and bad, based on a Mexican folktale. To a God Unknown is one of Steinbeck's first novels and also explores human nature and the forces of good and evil. The setting is California's central coast region, an area that has become home to me and that Steinback has gracefully immortalized.

The Overstory by Richard Price (2019 Pulitizer Prize winner for Fiction). Recommended to me by a friend, this is the story of trees, their long history, usefulness to mankind and collective nature for survival. It includes individual stories of idealists who sacrificed their lives to save trees, loosely based on real people. Dense, detailed and over-written.

The Goldfinch by Donna Tarrt (2014 Pulitzer Prize winner for Fiction). A coming of age novel about a boy who survives a terrorist's bomb in a museum that kills his mother. He steals a prized painting from the museum that travels with him amidst a range of unique characters and circumstances. A fun, well-written but very long yarn.

Aloha Rodeo by David Wolman and Julian Smith (2019).  Cowboys in Hawaii?! Paniolos were roping steers long before Western cowboys had their spurs. I found this book on my front porch, dropped off by a surf buddy with a barely legible note. Penned by two outdoor writers who obviously did their research, it's an historical account of  the origin of Hawaiian cowboys, paniolos, and their triumph at the 1908 Cheyenne Frontier Days. Includes a profile of Buffalo Bill Cody and the settling of Cheyenne, Wyoming. Also references the sad  takeover of Hawaii by the U.S. from Queen Liliuokalani. The great-but-humble paniolo, Ikua Purdy, may well have been the best cowboy ever! 

Everybody Had an Ocean: Music and Mayhem in 1960s Los Angeles by William McKeen (2017). I found this book on my bookshelf while searching for something to read. It was a gift from my daughter Vanessa who knows I enjoy a good book. I had placed it on a bookshelf and forgotten about it. I am glad I found it. This well-researched work contains not only a history of rock n' roll from Little Richard and Fats Domino through the Sixties, it concentrates on the contribution of the Beach Boys, more specifically Brian Wilson, to the rock music compendium during the 1960s when every rock 'n roll artist with a guitar and aspiring music producer migrated to Los Angeles, because that's where it was happening. (Except for Motown.) Within this LA glam, McKeen weaves the ugly undercurrent, so close by you can taste it, of the Manson Family and their would-be rock 'n roll star guru, Charlie. Great historical info here, especially regarding the music-production genius of Brian Wilson and his idol, Phil Spector. I read this hard-bound book with my computer nearby, so that I could see and listen, through YouTube, to many of the seminal songs that are dissected here. Great multi-media.

Beartown by Fredrik Backman (2016). I don't know much about hockey but I am familiar with how a sport, in my case high school football, can run a community, This fine novel is about a small hockey town and its people, their wisdom, morality, politics, mob-thinking, male-female struggles and more. Remember the Kavanaugh hearings and the brave woman who testified about being raped?  Backman's philosophical asides are treasures. I came to this book through a good friend who has read every Backman novel published, and there are a few. This was my first. I have already placed a hold on my next Backman novel through my local library.

The King and Queen of Malibu: The True Story of the Battle for Paradise by David K. Randall (2016). This is a well-researched story about a forgotten father of early Los Angeles, John Ringe, and about a slice of earth that has become as iconic to LA as Hollywood. Anyone who has spent time in southern California should have some interest in this true tale of early Los Angeles about a business man, his wife, homesteaders and the struggle for prime real estate. I found this book at my mother-in-law's house during a visit this year. An avid reader herself, Bettelu, 95-years-young, told me to take it: "Just bring it back. I haven't read it yet." I returned her book last week.

Mourning in the USA

Smoky Sunrise

In order to digest this experience in a way that does not stick to us for a long time, there cannot be any sweeping of the muck under the rug of silver lining.  -- regarding loss of home

When I stepped outside our back door today, I was met with the stale smell of smoke. It was not in the air yesterday. The wind must have changed direction. Near the coast, the shifting of wind can happen in a heart beat. An offshore suddenly becomes onshore. If you consider the circumference of directions -- southwest to northwest, easterly to southeasterly to south southwest, and upper atmospheric northerly -- you can appreciate Mother Nature's fickleness, and our detailed human method for calculating and describing wind.

What we really want to do is control wind, as we try to control everything. The basic human trait and dilemma. Build a sea wall to prevent erosion only to watch it crumble over time as the softness of water  breaks down the hardness of rock.

When will we ever learn. The irony of our predicament is predictable.

We build houses in remote locations, even communities off the grid, so that we will not be subject to the vicissitudes of urban life. We want quiet. We want private. We want our freedom. Then lightening strikes. No rain. Just lightening. A fire sparks and spreads, jumps with burning embers. Soon those special hideaways that have become our homes are turned to ash. The only thing left standing, is a chimney.

More than 1,400 homes have been destroyed by the CZU Lightning Complex fire, as well as precious books, art, tools, photographs, pianos, studios and life-long family memorabilia and more. This occurred over the past two weeks. 

We know of three homes that no longer exist. One had been inhabited by a couple for at least 30 years. They had recently installed a new, expensive solar energy system. Another family had recently  re-modeled their kitchen with new appliances and hand-crafted counters and cabinets. The timing of the fire could not have been more disappointing. The third house was home to an elderly widow who lost her husband last year.

We also heard about a house that was purchased one month ago that is now gone. Welcome to the neighborhood.

The inhabitants were forced to evacuate, find shelter and consider their options. 

The CZU fires took one life.

All of this in the middle of a pandemic and a national election so full of hatefulness and frustration that you want to leave. Just go somewhere else. Where is that? Of my writer's group of six people, two have  talked about relocating to Ireland.

We are in the middle of construction at our home. We need to be here to answer questions and make on-the-spot decisions. Our detached cottage, built as a studio, needs various upgrades to be permitted for over-night stays. So we have issues of plumbing, electrical and physical construction that need to meet new codes. 

At the same time, a major construction project is taking place next door that is so hugely out-of-scale to our neighborhood that passersby stop to ask if a hotel is going in. The project was shut down for two weeks due to a positive COVID test of one of the workers. The design of an out-of-town developer-speculator, the project started in October. The fires shut things down for a few days. The noise and dust and pounding can be unnerving; the singing of the Mexican laborers uplifting.

Life goes on. Smoky air fills our lungs. The days and nights try our souls. More people are wearing masks. The city is closing its beaches for the upcoming Labor Day weekend during which a heat wave is forecast. Tensions are high across the land. I watch a lady festooned in American red-white-and-blue flag fabric explain that our President is doing what needs to be done to keep us safe. I see Black men being killed and shot by white police officers. I hear that more than 180,000 people have died from COVID as thousands of new cases are reported each day. I see young people in the streets protesting. I see vigilantes carrying guns being praised by our President. A 17-year-old who illegally purchased an assault weapon kills two people and we are told it was self-defense. White collar criminals who were convicted are being pardoned, their sentences commuted. We are told that one who pleaded guilty was not guilty because rules were broken to catch him. Our intelligence agencies tell us that Russia has interfered and is again interfering with our election. Our President says it's a hoax. He never says anything negative about Russia. He accuses China, Germany and the Democrats of being the source of our problems. He accuses his rival's son of corruption due to nepotism, while his children occupy un-elected, influential positions in our government. He holds a campaign for his re-election on the grounds of our White House, with more flags than can possibly wave at one time. Nobody is wearing masks or social distancing. He says he solved the pandemic, refers to it in the past tense. I hear the large lead that his rival once had in the polls is closing. He says mail-in voting is full of fraud, yet there is no evidence of this. There is evidence from family members that he is a sociopath.

It feels as though our government has been taken over by a coup d'etat . Our small beach town is at the mercy of outside money. So it goes.

I decide to not sweep the muck under the rug of silver lining in order to digest this experience, so that it does not stick to us for a long time.