Year of Living Hopefully

Driving my car

through town on a recent overcast morning a skateboarder appeared in the left corner of my windshield. My foot slammed on the brakes, my car skidded left as I gripped right. My reaction was faster than my thinking. 

I spotted a human figure through my rearview mirror, head-covered in dark clothes, grab his or her skateboard and tenderly walk across the street to the sidewalk. Maybe he realized how close he came to being hit, possibly killed. 

I found myself trembling. 

So close.

I was reminded that things can change in an instant. 

So precious. This life.

Every second. A gift.

Here in Santa Cruz we move in close quarters with pedestrians, bicyclists, skateboarders, tourists and clueless wanderers. It behooves us all to stay alert.

As 2021 comes to a close, I want to shout out a "thank you" to those who take a moment to read my scribbles. It's been a roller-coaster year of hope one day and fear the next, mainly due to COVID and its increasingly contagious variants. The partisan rancor of a divided nation also plagues us. Thanks for hanging in there.

Two of my readers, that I know of, passed away this year, although not from COVID: Bill O'Hara, a longtime friend from high school, and Lee Quarnstrom, a writer with a resume to match Damon Runyon. They both lived the high life. I salute them.

As I face my 75th birthday next month, I consider that three-quarters of a century puts me on the short end of the curve. Now's the time to write that novel and tell my sister that I love her.

My beautiful wife Barbara celebrates her 73rd birthday today. Happy birthday, honey. We will mark our 40th anniversary of marriage on Christmas Eve. Thanks for believing in me, sweetheart. I love you. We met as neighbors on a circular street, two pilgrims clinging to the bend in the road. 

We raised three independent, gifted daughters, Molly, Vanessa and Bryna, who have contributed intelligence, compassion and levity to the world. We came together with each of them this year, and husbands Jason and Mike, as well as their children Summer, Piper, Samson, Finn, Viva and Mystiko, although never all at one time. 

I yearn for the day when we can all sit together.

We shall dance and howl as we have in the past. Drink wine. Take walks at sunset. Eat donuts at sunrise. Listen to good music. Savor delectable meals. Tell stories. Smell the roses. Laugh our heads off.

May you all embrace love, hope and happiness this holiday season and into the new year.

Drive carefully.

Pearl Harbor Day

Frank C. Samson, 1945

Look around today and you will see Old Glory, the flag of the United States of America, flying at half mast.

That is because 80 years ago today, Dec. 7, 1941, the U.S. Naval Base at Pearl Harbor in Honolulu, Territory of Hawaii, suffered a surprise attack by Japan.

More than 2,400 Americans were killed, nearly 1,200 wounded, eight U.S. battleships were sunk, 169 Navy and Army Air Corps planes were destroyed and 129 Japanese aircraft were shot down.

The following day, President Franklin Delano Roosevelt asked Congress to declare war on Japan.

War is hell.

My father, Frank Cameron Samson, had shipped out of Pearl Harbor on the battleship USS Idaho in June, missing the attack by six months. He spent six years in the Atlantic and Pacific theaters in battle support situations. His final deployment was on the USS Midway aircraft carrier. As a fire controlman he maintained and fired a range of military weaponry.

He never talked about his war experiences. 

As a farm boy from the plains of North Dakota, he had never seen a mountain until he traveled west on the train as a young adult. 

"I was awestruck by the Rocky Mountains," he said.

I can only imagine his long days at sea and intense moments during combat. He believed in service to his country and never complained. Ever. 

Frank was the son of Scottish immigrant, David Samson. His mother, Jeanette Harvey, homesteaded in Minnesota in the early 1900's.

My father found peace and contentment doing things with his hands, which were large for his small stature. A devoted rock hound, in his later years he made beautiful bolo ties, broaches and pins from gems and minerals. He also planted and tended lovely gardens. He devoted his life to my mother, Dorothy Herron Samson, a native of Havre, Montana. They were married in Seattle in October of 1945, following the war.

Controlman Frank C. Samson passed away on August 17, 2006, one month shy of his 91st birthday.

Thank you for your service, Dad. So glad you got out of Pearl Harbor before the attack.

Love, Kevin

Coming Home for Thanksgiving

Happy Gratitude Day from Kauai

The waves rise in horizontal blue lines as they approach the shore. They peak when the under current reaches the shallow bottom, they curl and crash into plumes of white foam. A surfer's ride may last a couple of seconds before the rider tumbles into the soup. It's over in a flash and a splash.

The short-lived beach break in Manhattan Beach does not stop surfers from grabbing their boards and heading out. You see the same people every day. It's their routine: The long-haired older guy who drives the El Camino. He's already out of the water by the time we see him peeling off his wetsuit in the parking lot. And there's the gal with the big white smile, long dark hair who's likewise caught her morning stoke and getting dressed behind her SUV.

"Good morning!"

She beams.

Barbara and I have just descended the hill next to the currently renowned Bruce's Beach, a terraced park of grass and trees that rises behind the lifeguard station operated by Los Angeles County. That section of the park was recently deeded back to the Bruce family, descendants of the original owners of the land who were run off by the authorities in the 1920s because of their dark skin. In those days they were politely called Negroes.

The Bruce family is the new lease holder. The remainder of the park still belongs to the city of Manhattan Beach.

Activity in the park has blossomed lately, says a longtime resident with a view of the park. "It's nice," says Bettelu, Barbara's mom, from her birds-eye window view.

Park-goers reflect a diversity of skin colors and ages, from toddlers to grandparents. The vibe is mellow.

We've come for Thanksgiving weekend to spend time with Bettelu. Our daughter Vanessa and her sons Samson and Finn arrive for our grateful feast. Husband Mike stays home with flu-like symptoms.

We're all trying to be careful during these days of COVID, and especially protect our most vulnerable family member who is 96 years young.

Our daughter Molly and her family (Jason, Summer, Piper and doggie Dolce) were all set to join the celebration when Piper came down with a cold. At the last minute, they called off their trip from San Rafael to Manhattan Beach. We all grieved with disappointment but made the best of it.

Thanksgiving table in Manhattan Beach

Vanessa presents Samson's birthday cake

Samson and Finn

So our Thanksgiving dinner was lightly attended. Samson, who just turned 13, contributed mightily by baking two pies -- banana cream and chocolate pecan -- and creating one cranberry salad with walnuts and marshmallows. His culinary interests tend toward the sweet side.

We all participated by helping ourselves to slices of pies and scoops of cranberries, as well as turkey, mashed potatoes, artichokes and a delicious Brussells sprout concoction prepared by Vanessa. She also entertained us with holiday tunes she played on Bettelu's piano.

Molly's table setting in San Rafael

Molly sent us photos of her last-minute Thanksgiving table arrangement at her home. And daughter Bryna on Kauai texted a photo of her setting for the holiday, which she called Gratitude Day, per her always-fresh and never conventional perspective. I'm sure her children, Viva and Mystiko, appreciated her gratefulness and organically inspired holiday cuisine.

In the morning, Barbara and I walk from 27th St. along the Strand to downtown Manhattan with our dog Frida. This is our ritual. I'm not fond of riding beach breaks and tumbling in the surf like a rag doll first thing in the morning. I always bring my wetsuit, however, and I have a board stashed in Bettelu's basement.

Along the way we pass and chat with the "surfer boys" who hang out at Marine Street, checking the surf and maybe heading out to the drink. Barbara calls them "surfer boys" because she's known some of them since elementary school in the Fifties. She grew up here. It's not the same beach town of middle class families that it was then. Most of the boys cannot afford to live here anymore. They come from places like Long Beach and drive the freeways to get here and meet their buddies at the beach.

"It's so crowded in the water it's beginning to look like Malibu," says one of the guys.

They should see Santa Cruz.

At the Manhattan Beach Pier, we turn up hill from the beach toward town. Green lights shaped like a Christmas tree shine at night at the end of the pier. It's a landmark. So is the Shellback Tavern just up the street, the only funky drinking and eating establishment in town, where you're liable to run into professional volley players or maybe an LA Laker.

Barbara's brother Bob owns the Shellback and if we're lucky we might see him ordering supplies early this morning. The doors are open and the bar empty. It reeks of disinfectant as Julio busily scrubs and mops, refreshing the place for a new day after last night's partying. If you want to watch sports on TV, this is the place.

Shellback is an old nautical term for one who has crossed the equator.

We head up to one of the coffee joints with Frida where locals with their dogs shuffle around, grabbing their morning fix and gabbing in front of Peet's. We slide through, order our cups of Joe, procure a bagel at Noah's next door. We bag one to bring back to Bettelu.

There's a Trumper at a table outside who goads people for wearing masks. Most are. He's a fixture, advertises his politics with his DT camouflage regalia. People accept him, many probably agree with him. It's a well-heeled conservative town. If you want to sit among liberals you go to Santa Monica.

Vintage and late model Porches, Lamborghinis, Ferraris, Lexus and Cadillac SUVs line the parking spaces like a car showroom. Wealth and sportiness are on display.

As a hometown girl come home, Barbara does not know these current locals. It's a change of pace for us. The homeless population hovers at about two.

Sunset in Manhattan Beach Nov. 22

The Green Flash

The day we arrived, I walked Frida down to the Strand just before twilight. The pristine blue sky had begun to fade. The silhouette of Catalina Island drew a shadowy line on the water. I stopped to stare at the gold sun as it sank behind the watery horizon, until its final glimmer of light.

That's when I saw the green flash, a split-second halo of spectral green light. It winked, a reminder of nature's sometimes subtle grandeur and the concept of mindfulness. Pay attention. When the Zen Buddhist monks enter the zendo (temple) they lead with their foot closest to the door hinge. It's a reminder to be mindful of every step.

Curious, I googled the green flash that appears at sunset and sunrise, although rarely seen.

Ever since Jules Verne's 1905 novel The Lighthouse at the End of the World, the green flash has engaged peoples' imagination. Pirate lore claims it signals the return of a dead soul. It has shown up in numerous poems and songs and plot points in novels.

"I saw the green flash," I said to Bettelu when I returned to the house.

"You did?" she said.

"Have you ever seen it?" I asked.

"No," she said.

I could tell by her expression that she still considered me the oddball son-in-law from Santa Cruz.