Shake Rattle and Roar.

Where were you twenty five years ago at almost this moment? I was sitting in my therapy office on Franklin St. in San Francisco. a two story brick building erected in 1903, awaiting my next client. I had just heard the rumble of the Loma Prieta but thought my five o'clocker would show up. I was the only one in the building and had no idea what was happening, other than we had an earthquake. I waited about ten minutes and then decided to go downstairs and walk around the block. To my horror as I walked the block to Van Ness I saw devastation everywhere. Glass was all over the place as well as hunks of concrete and bricks. It was growing dark. "Oh my," I sighed. "Guess I'd better get home".
So I hopped in my '64 bug and headed for the Bay bridge. Within a block the car radio reported the Bay bridge was down. So I debated. "Should I return to my office and sleep on the floor, or should I head for the Golden Gate Bridge, then the San Raphael bridge and through Berkeley to Oakland?" I decided on the latter. The San Francisco streets were pretty empty of moving cars. At a few intersections residents had gone out to direct traffic, as there were no signals or lights.
The toll booths were empty, and I was perhaps one of two or three cars on the bridge. It was eerie, but I said to myself, "If this bridge collapses on me, what a glorious way to go." No kidding, I really did.
Arriving finally safe in Berkeley I stopped at my office there and called Lee at home, where she was mighty glad to hear from me.  Folks in Berkeley were out and about, looking pretty normal.
That is only part of the story, though. The next day when I went back to my Berkeley office for scheduled appointments I found the front door crashed in as well as all the inner doors in the converted home which served five therapists. We were about five blocks from UC. From my office the telephone answering machine was stolen and papers scattered around. I learned later that day when the police came that the Berkeley druggies were terrified they could not get to San Francisco for their drug buys, and so raided many offices where they thought doctors might have drugs.
So much for how the Loma Prieta affected me.
When I got the call that afternoon to volunteer at the Berkley free clinic because so many druggies were upset, I declined. I'm sure you understand why.

Moving Into Flu Season

Tuesday as I got my flu shot at the local Safeway (ahem, the higher dose for those old enough to be at higher risk) I could't help but reflect on the great flu epidemic of 1918-19, which killed 20-40 million people world wide. My arm is only slightly tender now, very slightly, and I can't decide if the lethargy I feel this week is my imagination or not. Ever since I visited a genuine replication of a WW1 trench in Belgium with Jac on a French Escapade trip a few years ago I've been obsessed with what it must have been like for those soldiers thus housed, sometimes for over a year. No wonder we had a pandemic.
Yesterday was session 5 of my Lifelong Learning Class on the Great War and next week we are to bring personal mementos of it, if we have any. I'm bringing for display Aunt Celia's journal of her year in France as an army nurse. Although I've had it in my possession for many years I didn't sit down to read the entries until yesterday afternoon.
The family story goes that she fell in love with a soldier patient who died, and therefore never married. I'm not sure if it is true or a myth. She lived to 97. I should have asked her before she died which wasn't that long ago, but we always had a bit of a strained relationship, partly my fault, for I resented that her baby brother, my father, died so young, and that I was left with a dependent and
critical old aunt instead of a beloved father.
But back to the flu. My mother was 13 when the flu hit Canada. My grandfather having fought with the Princess Pat regiment and been wounded and hit with mustard gas, was still in a hospital in France. I remember her stories, which were frequently exaggerated, of course. Apparently the only hospital in Moosejaw, Sask., was overflowing, like hospitals everywhere. I think her mother ran a kind of rooming house. She told of coming home from school and finding the hall lined with cots of flu patients.  My mother said that everyone in town with a little space was expected to do this. Hard to imagine. The horse-drawn hearse which would collect bodies daily had a hard time keeping up with the task. Most of the victims were between 20-40 years of age, and death came very quickly.
So here we are this week frantic to stop the spread of another virus, the ebola, a virus far more lethal.
Lets hope we have better luck this time around.

Tree. Anyone?

My creative writing group here is getting hard up for topics. Last night we wrote about "If I were a tree, what tree would I be?" Here's my contribution.

 If I were a tree---

This is a ridiculous stretch of the imagination. Because I am unpredictable, I could never be a tree. Sometimes I am a liquidamber, sporting my fall colors in all their glory. At times I am cranky, like a prickly pear. Other times I am a shy dogwood, exposing just a little spring color. Unlike me, a tree has genes that predict its behavior. It may be sturdy, or graceful, or decorative. It may even be edible. I, on the other hand, have a thick torso but skinny foliage on top. No tree species, native or domesticated, would have me. 

I am neither decorative nor edible though in childhood I vigorously chewed my fingernails. I shed no leaves nor produce any seeds. For the record, I seldom sweat and produce hardly any ear wax. A tree, on the other hand, is a vital living thing, with sap generously flowing in all its arteries. 

Perhaps someday I will be reincarnated as a tree, and then look out. I will shelter baby owls and ladybugs, invite dogs to pee on my roots, and support anyone’s hammock that comes along. But I will be the funniest looking tree in the whole universe. 

And, since I can rarely keep my mouth shut, I will be a talking tree as well.  Want advice on budgeting, child-rearing, addictions or neuroses? Just cuddle up to the nearest tree and listen attentively. It may be me spouting off once again.  

So, what tree would you be? 

Driving around Hope Valley last week, my friend Joyce and I thought this tree made a statement all its own.  It looks like it could defend itself against the most severe winter storm. 

Smoke Or Not

That was the question as friend Joyce and I headed out last Tuesday for Hope Valley, a little south of Tahoe on the back side of the Sierra. Burned trees could be seen on both sides of Highway 50 but we encountered little smoke, even in Pollock Pines, which was clearly suffering physically and emotionally from the King fire. At Sorenson's resort (my fifth trip there in 14 years) the air was crystal clear and in the seventies until the last morning, when rain slid in. The hot summer and warm fall produced little color in the aspen. The peak is probably two weeks away. Disappointing, but still beautiful.
One day we explored Markleyville and another we wound our way up to Lower Blue Lake.
I had forgotten how lovely cold mountain water tastes. We cooked all our meals in our neat housekeeping cabin, only indulging once in Sorensons's famous berry cobbler.
It was nostalgic for me; three times I had been there with Lee, and always before with Kodi, for he loved to wade in the West fork of the Carson River.
Even though my cardiologist said I would not be bothered by the altitude, I found my energy level
depleted. I think I'll try the seashore for my next vacation.  Meanwhile, I hope I got some photos for inspiration for painting.

Up in The Air

The photo at left is from fourteen years ago. Fall is late in coming to the mountains this year.

My long planned trip to Hope Valley Next Tues. through Friday for photos of the quaking Aspen is still up in the air---literally. To date the King fire above Sacramento is only 10% contained and last night football games in Reno were cancelled because of the smoke. Meanwhile there is plenty on my plate to distract me.
Sessions on the Great War in my Osher Lifelong Learning class the past week have coincided with the Ken Burns story on the Roosevelts. I can't help but recall the day FDR drove by my public grade school in Seattle which his granddaughters attended. It was a spring day and he was sitting in the back of his convertible, slowly waving his cigarette and holder at the assembled student body. From my place on the steps I was about six feet away and I'll never forget it. We had practiced vocal tributes for months. We didn't understand why he wouldn't come in and greet us.
Several years ago at a conference in Atlanta, Lee and I took a tour to Warm Springs. FDR's actual crutches were on display in his tiny bedroom there. I gasped when I saw them. They were monstrous and so heavy and ugly. I couldn't hold back my tears.
Is this Ken Burns documentary the best ever, or is it just that I am old enough to have lived through much of the Roosevelt dynasty?

Little Girls and Little Kids

My household was overflowing with excitement last week as Lee's great nephew and four and a half year old daughter honored us with a visit from far away rural New Hampshire where they lead a very different life than in busy California. How lucky am I. Charlotte is fascinated with water, like most kids her age, and never wanted to leave the Santa Rosa Children's museum where they have many water features including a child sized pond with plastic fish and little nets.

 She liked my back yard water fountain too. The only thing that troubled her was the Golden Gate bridge. Her Daddy promised she could close her eyes when they went back over it. 

 

Beth ( left, below) arrived shortly after they departed to join our photo group for a tour of the Two Rock Valley Goat farm in Petaluma. 

A delightful older lady also named Bonnie enthralled us with the story of getting two nubian goats for her kids, a pastime which has grown into over 200 goats, each of which seem to be her babies, mostly raised by hand. 

These babies are taken away from their moms at two or three days old and fed cow's milk, far less precious than the goat milk, which is preserved for the cheese making. In my excitement with the goats I hardly took any photos. If you haven't held a two week old baby goat in your arms you haven't lived! They are like puppies wanting nothing more than to be held and cuddled. I was ready to sell my home and buy a 

goat ranch.  Fortunately my delirium didn't last, but I don't think I will ever forget the ecstasy. 

Most of our small tour group bought goat cheese made right there by a true Swiss farmer. I passed on the goat cheese. I just wanted to take a little kid home. 

Out and About in Sonoma County

My prices have gone down. My learned advice is to get out and about in Sonoma County right now. The weather has cooled off to make for a delightful early fall. The Valley of the Moon has so much to  offer. My friend Jan (visiting from Oakland) and I had a delightful visit to the Charles Schultz museum. What a feast for the eyes and mind! Definitely more for adults than children. 

Midweek my photo group trekked to the QuarryHill Botanical Garden in Glen Ellen, only about fifteen minutes from here. This vast garden preserves endangered species from Asia and has rotating exhibits, currently of gigantic wooden sculptures. I got to do a test run with my new camera, as well. 

The local veggie markets are still overflowing with heirloom tomatoes, but I wonder how long that will last.  Some vineyards are already crushing. 

Today and tomorrow I will host Lee's four and a half year old great niece, Charlotte, and her Daddy from New Hampshire.  We hope to stretch our toes and minds at the local Children's museum. My calendar is bulging with meetings and trips, mostly new adventures. How is yours? Come see me.