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. 

Breath of Fresh Air

Happy birthday to Finn Harrington, 9

Yesterday the air quality in Santa Cruz was good. We saw clouds, blue sky and could take a deep breath without coughing. 

It is a marvelous feeling to be able to walk outside and feel fresh air. I was reminded of how much for granted we take such simple things. 

The city of Santa Cruz has been spared fire damage, yet close by, friends have lost their homes and some still pray that the CZU Lightning Complex fire will not reach their property.

The fire is now 17% contained, and continues to blaze in steep and hidden areas unaccessible to firefighters. The greater community has expressed gratitude for their tough, stalwart efforts.

Fire Protection Services have held twice-a-day press conferences every day at six o'clock in the morning and evening. These reports have been candid, clear and informative.

Neary 80,000 acres have burned, with 330 structures reported destroyed, including 313 in Santa Cruz County.

A strong southwesterly wind cooled off the Santa Cruz coast yesterday bringing moist fog with it, a welcome addition to our precarious situation -- a nice breather for Santa Cruz.

Last week we were able to celebrate our grandson Finn's ninth birthday with a family Zoom meeting, connecting three locations in California and one on the island of Kauai. We have not had physical contact with our children and grandchildren for months. 

We look forward to the days when our lives return to something close to normal. We grieve for those who have lost their homes.

It is truly incredible how our communities have adjusted to these circumstances. The human spirit remains strong.

Pandemic, Heat Wave, Fire

Sun rising through smoke, Thursday morning, from Santa Cruz Municipal Wharf

"If you think things cannot possibly get worse, trust me -- they can." 

                                                                                         --- Michelle Obama

Last week we suffered a depleting heat wave in Santa Cruz with temperatures as high as 105-degrees. Sheltering under the constraints of the Covid pandemic, we hunkered further down and accepted our sweltering medicine. Then early Sunday morning, between midnight and the first light of day, a swirling windstorm woke us up, coupled with frequent flashes of lightning.

Some of our friends jumped out of bed and went outside to capture photos of the rare sight of lightning strikes in local skies. Many of these shots were shared and posted on social media. 

Given the dry conditions in our region of California, our first thought was fire! However, reports and graphic models indicated that the numerous lightning strikes were over water, although as close as seven miles away. That seemed somewhat reassuring.

Next we heard that a fire had started south of Salinas, as well as another much farther south in California.

Tuesday night we retired, feeling no worse, even slightly uplifted after watching the nominating roll call presented as part of the virtual Democratic Convention. Both Barbara and I commented on the votes coming from various parts of the country, from real people in their unique settings, from Maine to Marianna Islands. Who could not smile when two guys from Rhode Island called their state the "comeback calamari state."

It was a visual reminder of the breadth of our unique, melting-pot nation. When West Virginia came on the screen I was reminded of my road trip across the country in 1973 in a Volkswagen bus. Of all my travels, that one stands out as my favorite.

We rode the old highways and visited small towns and big cities, staying primarily at campgrounds, sometimes just outside of the cities, including Salt Lake, Tulsa, Memphis, Louisville, Kentucky and Charleston, West Virginia. We met locals and travelers just like us, young people coming from all directions.

The people we met were friendly and helpful and we spoke the same language, save for some regional drawls and inflections.

When I woke up on Wednesday, still reminiscing about our land voyage over mountains and rivers, I was dumbstruck to find a blanket of ashen confetti covering our back patio, our cars and sidewalks. I had never seen anything like this. Not in Santa Cruz.

I turned on the news and checked social media to discover that a lightning fire, Lightning Complex CZU, was burning north of Davenport, 11 miles away, moving south toward Santa Cruz. There were also two fires south of Santa Cruz, one near Carmel Valley. The light outside was a muted yellow-grey. The sun a scarlet orb in a smoke-filled sky, the air smelled of burnt ash.

Today it is worse. Friends are evacuating their homes. Forty-thousand acres of forest are burning, uncontained. Many are seeking refuge with friends and in Santa Cruz hotels and inns. We have small cottage under construction that we've offered to a couple of friends, if needed.

At a press conference this morning, County Fire Protection officials emphasized that if asked to evacuate, do so, for your safety and that of the firefighters. The forests under siege have stored "fuel" from years of not burning. There is no containment. It is a unique and unknown incident.

Our roads are fairly quiet. Smoke is heavy. Ash is falling like light snow. Neighbors are comparing the situation to the Loma Prieta Earthquake of 1989 that literally demolished our downtown.

Barbara washed a load of laundry this morning and didn't realize that the drain hose was not fitted to the outflow pipe, due to ongoing construction in our adjacent cottage. Water was soon flooding our garage, half of which is used for storage.

We spent the morning mopping up water and removing boxes, tools, sports equipment, household goods, bicycles, water heater, art supplies and more onto our patio where ash covers everything.

What's next? Evacuation?

Remember the good ole days, before Covid and Trump, when everybody liked each other, all we had to worry about was an earthquake.

Last Wave

Friday, August 21: Yesterday afternoon the prevailing winds shifted and the CZU Lightning Complex fire raged toward Scotts Valley and Felton rather than moving closer to the city of Santa Cruz, where many evacuees have taken refuge.

In addition to most of Scotts Valley, Felton, Paradise Park and Zayante, the campus of UC Santa Cruz has been evacuated. Davenport was also evacuated but appears not to have burned at this point.

We have packed a few essentials and are ready to go if necessary.

Today morning fog mixed with the smoke early, resulting in blank grey skies. Ash covers everything outdoors and streets are practically empty. The moisture supposedly helps, although the stench of smoke remains. Air quality is "poor."

Tourists and visitors have been asked to leave Santa Cruz County.

The fire is still 0% contained, mostly burning in hilly, forested terrain. Additional firefighters have arrived bringing the total number to about one-thousand, but still not enough. More than 50,000 acres have burned.

Greatest devastation has been reported in Big Basin State Park, and the communities of Boulder Creek and Bonny Doon.

The total number of homes and buildings lost so far is still unknown.

Golf's New Hero

Golf made the headlines on Sunday when 23-year-old Collin Morikawa electrified a nation of sheltering Americans who spent Sunday afternoon in front of their television screens. Virtually unknown, he burst from a crowded field of mostly young, recognized horses to win the prestigious PGA Tournament, one of golf's four Majors, going away.

His execution of two particular shots on the 14th and 16th holes at TPC Harding Park in San Francisco were sights of beauty and mastery which the game has longed for. In front of a nation, suffering a depressing pandemic, golf gave us a hero and reason to smile.

We smiled further when the Wanamaker Trophy presented to Collin lost its top, falling to the ground, when he held it up for all to see. The scene of the toppling silver trophy has been played over again as many times as his two extraordinary golf shots. His boyish grin is infectious.

Who would have guessed that golf could give us a lift. The 500-year-old game has gone out of favor in recent years. It's too slow, too difficult, takes too much time. The millennials have shunned it like an obnoxious uncle.

Less than two years ago we thought we had come out of our golf funk when Tiger Woods reappeared to win his 15th Major. People went crazy for Tiger, rushed out to see him, always the biggest name and draw in the game.

The superstar's reappearance at the top was brief. He finished tied for 37th at the PGA on Sunday. 

On Saturday and Sunday, the new kid, Collin, fresh out of UC Berkeley, shot rounds of 65 and 64, 11 under par for the two days. He tied the record for youngest player to win the PGA Major, an elite group that includes Tiger, Rory McIlroy and Jack Nicklaus.

Everybody's talking Collin. We'll see. It's a weird game and it shows no mercy.

Oddly enough for this strange game of a stick and ball and 4.25-inch hole, sheltering during Covid has re-energized interest. It's an outdoor sport and it's easy to maintain six-foot distance. Although I cringed when Collin, after winning the PGA, hugged his caddie.

Maybe they were both tested before the tournament. A gallery of fans was not present at Harding

I spent about three decades of my life attempting to put together a golf game. For the past two decades my preference has been surfing. But when the waves stop coming during summer, I lean toward the fairways.

Golf allows you space and a clearly defined turn to strike the ball. Surfing is chaotic and free-form. Etiquette is rarely followed. You must compete for a wave. Pretty soon you find yourself competing with surfers who weren't even born when you were in your prime.

"Hey gramps, get out of the way!"

On the other hand there are those like Donald Trump who give golf a bad name. Golfers don't want to be around egotistical liars and cheaters. You never want to get stuck in a foursome with someone like him.

Golfers seem to be forever working on their swing. I know I have. I've been in a little bit of a slump but I think I'm coming out of it. I've got a new key for my swing. There was a period when I would stand over the ball and smile, with the knowledge that I was going to make a pure strike. 

We'll see how things go during my next round at DeLaveaga. I'm not going to divulge my new secret until it's proven for a full 18-hole round. I look forward to playing with my golf partners Bob and Bill as we go out as a team to beat Old Man Par.

I'm sure we'll talk some about the new phenom Collin and wish him the best.