Jury Duty!
So I'm in Jury Assembly Room 007.
Paoli, Robin Paoli.
Licensed to serve.
As I walked in, I could see and hear part of a scripture verse from James, chapter 2:
Mercy triumphs over judgment.
(In context, verses 12 and 13: "So speak and so act as those who are to be judged by the law of liberty.
For judgment will be merciless to one who has shown no mercy; mercy triumphs over judgment.")
Jury service in San Francisco is user friendly. Lots of information on what to expect and how to do what citizens should do. Room 007 is a large comfortable space with padded arm chairs for readers, listeners and quiet waiters, plus a spacious middle area with tables and power outlets for us laptop people.
Whoops, they just called us back in.
Reporting live from the courthouse...
Newscycle Haiku
This voracious world
Records ev'ry and no thing
Lights, cam'ra, action!
Ricky is a news camera magnet. We go somewhere, a news camera appears, and someone says "Excuse me sir, could I interview you about the rising cost of gas?"
Last week, my sister and brother-in-law were in town. The happy sight-seers came home in the early evening and asked about the wayward whales, wandering 'round the bay. We turned on the TV in time to hear a breathless news-muffin say the coast guard believed the whales were heading for the Golden Gate bridge and freedom out in the Pacific.
What a lark, let's go walk the bridge in the cool evening breeze and scan the sea for "Delta" and "Dawn." (I know, don't blame me, I didn't name them.)
We pull up to the GG bridge parking area, take ten steps from the car and suddenly News Muffin #2 appears, whips her camera around to Ricky and says, "So did you come to see the whales?"
The Man, holding The Dog, provides an erudite, clear, engaging reply. We walk the bridge in the falling light, evening bringing ever-colder winds, haunted by the news cameras. I see a coast guard cutter preceded by two dark shapes in the water. Excited, I run. Excited, the camera tracks me. They are seals, not whales.
Cold and invigorated, we go home to warm pasta and room-temperature wine.
Next day, we take the Pathfinder in for routine service and our favorite automotive guru says, "Were you by any chance on the Bridge looking for whales last night?"
Powerful TV
Broadcasts random citizens
Chasing seal shadows
I married an altar boy
While we were dating, some of our most vigorous conversations were about religion. Not so much spirituality or the "conversation with Jesus," as Richard puts it, but church-based organized religion. When I say vigorous, I mean the spirited discourse where two people engage fully on thoughts, feelings and values, where worth is NOT an issue. Disagreement was usual but never threatening, a hallmark of of a healthy relationship.
I came to the conversation on my arc of raised-southern-baptist-ordained-minister-non-denominational-pastor-and-woman. He came to it from his arc of raised-roman-catholic-culturally-tasted-the-spiritual-buffet-wound-up-in-a-methodist-church-cook-man. With two such divergent backgrounds, the surprising thing is how much we agreed upon.
So here we are married and participating in an Episcopal church in San Francisco. We're called one night and asked if we want to join the altar guild, i.e. lay people who help serve communion and carry some of the accoutrements for the 11:00 a.m. service. Richard is enthused, as I am, so we go through training.
Although we have asked to serve together, while we're novices we're serving separately so as to reinforce the learning from more experienced partners. This Sunday will be his first "live" service, and he's going to make a great altar boy.
My new laptop
My office-provided Dell Inspiron 8200 laptop melted down on a business trip. CD-ROM won't work, USB ports recognize nada, the hard drive keeps trying to re-write one particular groove. What's an ethernet port, dude?
Sad times for the Dell. And, I thought, for the Rob.
24 hours later, the MMI tech guy hands me this. Wow.
Yay MMI.
They are a threat to your children, David
Here's the question from NBC's David Gregory: "Mr. President, after the mistakes that have been made in this war, when you do as you did yesterday, where you raised two-year-old intelligence talking about the threat posed by al-Qaeda, it's met with increasing skepticism. A majority in the public, growing number of Republicans appear not to trust you any longer to be able to carry out this policy successfully. Can you explain why you believe you're still a credible messenger on the war?"
Bush's reply: "I'm credible because I read the intelligence, David, and make it abundantly clear in plain terms that if we let up, we'll be attacked, and I firmly believe that. You know, I -- look, this has been a long, difficult experience for the American people. I can assure you al-Qaeda, who would like to attack us again, have got plenty of patience and persistence, and the question is, will we.
"I believe I have an obligation to tell the truth to the American people as to the nature of the enemy, and it's unpleasant for some. I fully recognize that after 9/11, in the calm here at home, relatively speaking -- you know, caused some to say, well, maybe we're not at war. I know that's a comfortable position to be in, but that's not the truth.
"Failure in Iraq will cause generations to suffer, in my judgment. Al-Qaeda will be emboldened. They will say, 'Yeah, once again, we've driven the great soft America out of a part of the region.' It will cause them to be able to recruit more. It will give them safe haven.
"They are a direct threat to the United States, and I'm going to keep talking about it. That's my job as the president, is to tell people the threats we face and what we're doing about it. And what we've done about it is, we've strengthened our homeland defenses. We've got new techniques that we use that enable us to better determine their -- you know, their motives and their plans and plots.
"And we're working with nations around the world to deal with these radicals and extremists. But they're dangerous, and I can't put it any more plainly. They're dangerous. And we -- and I can't put it any more plainly to the American people and to them. We will stay on the offense. It's better to fight them there than here.
"And this concept about, well, maybe, you know, let us kind of just leave them alone and maybe they'll be all right, is naive. These people attacked us before we were in Iraq. They viciously attacked us before we were in Iraq, and they have been attacking every since. They are a threat to your children, David. And whoever's in that Oval Office, better understand it and take measures necessary to protect the American people."
None of which, of course, answers the question. Offered a chance to address the seminal challenge facing his presidency, Bush chose stock phrases, straw-man arguments and an appeal to fear. And then he got personal.
"They are a threat to your children, David," Bush said.
Over the past six years, the intelligence has been wrong or twisted or both, while Bush's predictions about the Middle East have been almost uniformly wrong. But we're just supposed to trust him again because he says so?
So: Bush describes himself, when not calling himself "The Decider," by saying: "That's my job as the president, is to tell people the threats we face and what we're doing about it."
I thought the president's job was to govern, lead and inspire.
NOT be fear-monger-in-chief.
FDR told us "the only thing we have to fear is fear itself."
Bush started saying "Boo!" six years ago, and has built his rule and reign on fear. He was my governor when I lived in Texas; I've been voting "anyone but" ever since.
Batter Up!
With Ricky, this could go either way:
sports blog...
food blog...
cake walk!
You never totally know someone when you marry them, and they never totally know you. There are some conversations you never get around to having until they happen.
Saturday lunch time, we were in the middle of a church retreat in the California wine country (Russian River valley), when one of those unknowns hit the mound.
But first, an anecdote!Later that day, one woman remarked to several of us during a wine tasting event:"This is why people hate us.""Which us," asked a man, swirling his Chardonnay, "Americans? Episcopalians?""No," she replied, "Californians. Here we are in the mountains on a beautiful afternoon, swilling wine, discussing the finer points of cilantro pesto vs. red pepper pesto, and none of us know quite where our children are."But back to lunch. Many options await us (free time is big at our church retreats) and Richard says: "Come on, let's go make fools of ourselves on the softball field."
So we head out to the softball field in the blazing near-summer afternoon heat, where Dan and Sandy have us divided on teams by birth year -- Evens (Skins) versus Odds (Shirts). Which puts me and Ricky on different teams. (We were going to be the Christians and the Lions, but our Rector said that would offend genuine Christians and lions.)
Softball is new to our marriage. We've never discussed it, never discussed playing it, liking it, being good or bad at it. And now we're playing publicly. Are we really going to make fools of ourselves?
Suddenly, Ricky is playing 3rd base on the opposite team, his cap pulled down low, dancing lightly in shorts and hiking boots. More suddenly, my team mate hits a line drive straight down the third base line. Long, tall Ricky jumps and shoots one glove-bearing arm out into the ether, snagging the smoking ball and retiring my side.
Yum. Who knew he could play, and play well? I want to give him many sons.
Now we (the Shirts) are in the outfield, and I'm tapped to pitch. Ricky looks at me sideways, not sure whether to trash talk or be gentle. He doesn't know I can pitch, because we've never discussed softball.
Editor's note: We're talking slow-pitch church league family softball with big soft balls and the implicit connivance of adults that if one of the 6-year-old children hits the ball, they make it to first base. (It's fine to throw them out at second, but let them get to first.)Three batters later, Ricky realizes he can trash talk, because I can pitch.
Three innings later, we all quit. It's just too darned hot to play any more, particularly when swimming pools, shady cabins and wine tastings stretch before us.
The Shirts took the Skins, 15 to 12. Father Jason said to Ricky, walking up the hill back to the cabins: "So what's it like to go home with the winning pitcher?"
The Man smiled and said, "It makes losing a little easier."
Duke part 2
When I was six, Duke the furball German Shepherd arrived. He was tiny, furry and oh-so-young.
Fast forward three years. I'm nine, a terribly sophisticated, wise beyond her years nine, who had read "Gone With the Wind" and "Tender is the Night." I understood GWTW, but TitN went way WAY over my head -- what's with the confused timeline in the narrative?
So anyway, fast forward to my ninth year. The Jules is born. The wonderful, marvelous Julie. People were afraid I would be jealous, but actually I was delighted -- I had my own live person to play with, talk to, change her diapers. Sister, daughter, finally blessedly friend. What a wonderful blue-eyed hellion was the Jules.
When she entered my life, she also entered Duke's life. He better than I understood her fragileness. He left my bedside to sleep under her crib. When she threw bottles (or pacifiers or bears or Humptys) out of the crib, Duke picked them up very tenderly and carried them to us (me or Mom).
Hey, he said, holding the bottle with furrowed brow, the baby needs you! We would take the bottle from him (Mom sometimes sterilized it if Duke was carrying it nipple first) and go check on the Jules, handing the bottle to her as she shook the bars of her cage - I mean crib - and danced on bootied feet.
Duke loved her the moment she was born, and protected her as long as He was with us. No wonder Julie loves dogs; she was brought into the wolf pack at birth.
I can see Duke now, stretched beneath her crib, listening watching waiting. He was my playmate. Her protector.
Alphabet of Grace
Frederick Buechner, author and pastor, wrote the following devotional in his book, "Listening to Your Life":
Life itself can be thought of as an alphabet by which God graciously makes known his presence and purpose and power among us. Like the Hebrew alphabet, the alphabet of grace has no vowels, and in that sense his words to us are always veiled, subtle, cryptic, so that it is left to us to delve their meaning, to fill in the vowels, for ourselves by means of all the faith and imagination we can muster. God speaks to us in such a way, presumably, not because he chooses to be obscure, but because unlike a dictionary word whose meaning is fixed, the meaning of an incarnate word is the meaning it has for the one it is spoken to, the meaning that becomes clear and effective in our lives only when we ferret it out for ourselves.
As a writer/editor, I want to clean up his syntax and sentence construction. But as a spirit, all I can do is applaud. The alphabet of grace. What a marvelous name for one way God communicates with Creation.
Would that we all employed the Alphabet of Grace in our interactions with each other. How would life be different?
Spiritual manipulation #461
When I hear people -- usually pastors -- talking about ways to steer "regular" conversations into "spiritual" conversations, I remember a line of dialogue from a movie called "The Big Kahuna":
"Because as soon as you lay your hands on a conversation to steer it, it's not a conversation anymore; it's a pitch. And you're not a human being; you're a marketing rep."
I wonder how many pastors, mentors, coaches and other spiritually-associated leaders are aware of the manipulation that occurs when they "lay their hands on a conversation"? I wonder how many don't care and/or shrug it off because they are divinely anointed manipulators?
I wish people would respond honestly and transparently to inherent spiritual components. Rather than manipulating the conversation to be about whatever they want to discuss, spiritual leaders could respond openly out of his or her own bias. This honors the other person and allows them to be a full partner in the conversation.
Some people teach that we globalize out of our experiences, that we impute our thoughts, reactions, desires, habits, actions, decisions into and onto others. For example, Mr. Ex doesn't like helping people move, so he assumes no one wants to help him move.
Sometimes I globalize, sometimes I don't. Most often, I globalize the good things ("Everyone wants to help") and I personalize the bad things (I'm embarrassed but you're not").
But here is a negative globalization: I think most leaders, particularly spiritual leaders, attempt to manipulate conversations as part of a larger manipulation to force people to think like, act like, believe like them. When I was a pastor, I was aware I feared this and I did everything I could NOT to be one of the manipulators. Not saying I never screwed up -- saying I never consciously attempted to manipulate the people around me. There is a huge difference between true honest leadership and manipulation, and most "leaders" manipulate because they find it easier to force the results they want.
But as soon as you lay your hands on a conversation to steer it, it's not a conversation anymore; it's a pitch. And you're not a human being; you're a marketing rep.
Jingle Jangle Bryngle
Some sounds have universal meaning for domesticated canines. The soft vacuum-released"fooomp" of a refrigerator door opening; the krinkle of cellophane; the clang of fork on plate; the air brakes of the FedEx truck.
But surely none is more galvanizing than the jingle jangle of keys.
Keys!
Car-keys, house-keys,
fun-keys, mon-keys!
Bryn Tin Tin can be sound asleep outside on the patio yet hear a key sing even the smallest duet with another key from inside, upstairs, across the house. Zoom! Cheetah-dog leopard hound is right beside you, 2 seconds later. Where are we going? I'm ready!
But no dog was as key-oriented as Duke the German Shepherd. What a noble beast, my childhood friend, protecting me from everything except thunderstorms, which sent him fleeing into my closet.
The slightest key-like sound sent him racing from person to person, front door to kitchen door, waiting for the glorious crack of air that he could exploit for freedom. Milk bottles to overturn, fences to jump, clothes to pull from lines, willing females to meet. Push, push the door open and run!
Duke was Christmas present to the 6-year-old me. When I was scared, Duke guarded me. When I curled up in a cubbyhole, with blanket, flashlight and book, Duke curled up with me. Sometimes he was the pillow for my head, sometimes the wall at my back. As a young puppy, he explored the Hundred Acre Wood with Pooh and Christopher Robin. As he turned two and then three, we went to sea with Captain Hornblower, and walked the streets of London with Mr. Holmes.
He would lie stretched out on the shag carpet while I put little wooden "Fisher Price" people on him. (That's me on the right, the blond girl in the blue suit.) He was the mountain they lived on. They walked across his ribs, slept between his paws, looked out on the world from between the peaks of his ears. And I guess I did, too.
The jangle of keys meant so much to him. Finally, it was the way we said good-bye. We had moved to Texas and our back yard was too small for him, my parents said. They gave him to the Canine Corps of the Houston police department, lying about his age so they would take him. The Officer came to our door -- complicit in the deception -- and jangled a huge set of keys. Duke jumped into the back seat of the patrol car, sniffing out crime like a good Watson, and I never saw him again.
The Officer called twice. Once to tell us he was setting new records for the high jump and climbing courses (could have told him that), but that he didn't like gunfire (ditto - thunder!). A second time to say, he's doing well, we've bonded, he lives with me and my family, he's great with kids.
I could've told him that, too.
Rutting, again
Imagine the worst road you've ever traveled. Was it unpaved, rocky, steep, precarious, one-lane? (If you've never driven a really bad road, imagine one of those Jeep or Hummer commercials where an improbably shiny vehicle bounces up and over a mountain top as the driver drinks Mountain Dew.)
With your mental picture firmly fixed, magnify the "worse-ness" of it exponentially -- maybe to the tenth power. Welcome to the canyons along the North Fork of the American River.
I have traveled rough roads, from Ethiopia to Texas, but Saturday's journey from Weimar, California (the western edge of the Sierra Nevadas) down to the North Fork of the American River may have been the rockiest of all. It is not so much a road as a narrow collection of ruts formed by rain, erosion and a tiny, crazed bull-dozer.
Ricky gave me a book -- "Best Hikes with Dogs, Northern California edition" -- that featured a hike through part of the American River canyon and up to Codfish Falls. We spent the weekend in the general area, and were enthused to have the opportunity to try the hike. It is an off-leash area for well-behaved canines, and Bryn behaved beautifully. What a happy hound, leaping from rock to rock, scaling canyon walls, climbing down to the river for a drink and then racing back up to the trail.
The man and I were pretty happy, too. Gorgeous day, gorgeous scenery, and just enough of a challenge to give us a work-out, without punishing us.
The guidebook had warned us that the road through the National Wilderness Area could be treacherous. And it was, deeply rutted, narrow, cut out of the canyon wall. One lane of huge rocks, deep holes and blind curves, snaking down to the river below.
Our Nissan Pathfinder will have been in service 15 years this coming September. A rear-wheel drive manual transmission, we treat her as if she were a combination race car and 4-wheel drive dune buggy, and some how she thrives. But we drove this road in first gear, braking and praying the whole way.
Two things kept us going -- one, the promise of an excellent hike; two, the Toyota Prius that started down ahead of us.
We kept looking at each other as we bumped up, down and sideways -- "A Prius?!?" No doubt great cars, but not known for their ground clearance or off-road prowess.
Richard was driving, his customary brio tempered by the awe-full awfulness of this road. And each time we reached a seemingly impassable point, the Prius kept us going.
Finally, the road flattened out alongside the river, near two trailheads and a lovely ancient one-lane bridge crossing to the other side. A half-dozen old SUVs and pick-ups were parked on the canyon lip overlooking the slight drop to the river. We parked between the Prius and the bridge, and stepped out to greet the couple in the little hybrid.
"Helluva road," said the Prius' driver, laughing, climbing out from behind the wheel.
"We kept thinking, if the Prius can make it, so can we!" I replied, shaking his hand.
We enjoyed a marvelous hike. Late spring-time turning to hot summer, the wildflowers still blooming, the rivers and creeks still carrying snow run-off.
After the hike (and successfully navigating the climb back up the mountain) we went to a winery and had a picnic. A friendly group of visitors introduced themselves to us as "wine sluts," but that is for another blog.
Kidnap!
The man's birthday is approaching, so the dog and I have arranged to kidnap him. Off we go, early tomorrow, north across the Golden Gate and into adventure.
He has borne the secrecy so much better than I. "Simply tell me what to pack," says he, while I yearn to spill all the beans.
"Pack your hiking boots," I have instructed, "and food for the dog, for she comes with us. Bring your appetite, a corkscrew and two good books."
I want to tell him about the national forest, the hiking trails, the vineyards. The solitude of the mountain in whose shadow we will sleep while the hound lifts her head as the deer rustle past to the creek.
Living l'eat-a loca
Our decision to take the Locavore Challenge (purchase and eat food -- ideally organic food -- "sourced" within a 100-mile radius of your house) has turned into the Geography Challenge for Robin.
Ricky has embraced this with his usual enthusiasm for good food, and already seems to know more about it than anyone else. Truly, the man is a quick study. But he grew up in Europe, eating local, seasonal produce.
So here we are in Farmer's Markets and local grocers, inquiring as to the provenance of the asparagus. Reading the back of a bag of rice, I murmur to myself, "Is Fairfield between here and Sacramento?" Yes it is, so in the basket the rice goes.
We've bookmarked farmer's market web sites in Mozilla, and I'm starting to get the sense that anything you could reasonably want is in California. Not just in CA, but within a 100-mile radar sweep of San Francisco. Of course, Ricky's been telling me this for years.
The biggest hurdle is not finding the food locally -- or even educating Robin about what might be growing in Suisun City -- it is staying within the food budget. Organic grapes coaxed from vines along the Russian River by vestal virgins at midnight ain't cheap.
I've eaten peaches fresh from the tree on a warm day in Texas, picked an apple from an orchard in North Carolina, and shelled peas on a Kentucky farm. They tasted like the sunshine and rain were still inside them, not leached away by cans, processing, chemicals and long truck rides.
Trying to live the locavore way reminds me of an old Peanuts cartoon. Linus (I think it was Linus) is about to eat something, but pushes it away because the box say it is full of "ingredients."
Which brings us to the pet food trauma and another blog entry. Final note: The Times recently reported on a young East Coast locavore who strained sea water from the Atlantic Ocean to produce salt. I'm not there, yet.
Ramming speed!
As an experienced kayaker -- two oceans, a gulf, several bays and numerous rivers -- I thought a row boat excursion on Stow Lake at Golden Gate Park would be a walk in the park. So to speak.
Ha!
Luckily, Ricky crewed at Georgetown and had small craft experience in the Navy, so Robin's struggles didn't doom us.
If you're unfamiliar with Stow Lake, it is at the top of a hilly ridge in the vaguely central area of Golden Gate Park.
The lake encompasses an island with a tall-ish peak and several smaller islands, and features marvelous bridges, a water fall, a pagoda, lots of wildlife, and a boat house. Even in fog or rain it is beautiful.
The boat house sells concessions, rents an interesting variety of bicycle surreys, and rents boats -- paddle boats, motor boats, and row boats. You're allowed to take dogs (and picnics if you wish) on the row boats, and so on Sunday, the man, the dog and I set out for Stow Lake.
As we stood on the little pier, boathouse workers were winching a motor boat up out of the water -- it had sunk to the bottom just before we arrived. Yet another vote for rowing!
We threw a couple of flotation cushions into the row boat, then I stepped in and sat down in the stern. Bryn jumped in after me, and Richard tossed me the dry bag (camera, wallet, fleece, water bottles, cookies, etc.) before settling himself on the middle seat and picking up the oars.
With deft, sure strokes he propelled us away from the pier and out into the lake. Sitting with his back to the bow and therefore unable to see where we were going, Ricky relied on me to say "starboard," "port," and "paddle-boaters ahead." Spying a small island with a partly submerged tree stretching bare limbs at a convenient height, we tied up the boat and relaxed for a while. Water, cookies, book, crosword puzzle. The dog desperately wanted all the ducks and sea birds paddling by, but she doesn't yet realize she can swim. So she stood alertly on the bow and "pointed."
Before too long (the boat rental is charged by the hour), we unhooked and set off again, Richard still rowing. We passed through one of the arches of a "Roman" stone bridge, then entered the part of the lake where you can see the waterfall on the main middle island.
The cold wind was whipping small waves, and we switched rowers. Immediately, I realized this wasn't like kayaking, and the ease with which Richard had piloted us was based on college crewing and Navy experience. Knowing how to row a boat well is very different than kayaking, even kayaking on the open seas or through river rapids.
And genuine rowing about is nothing like the rowing machine at the gym. We didn't hit anything, anyone, or overturn. In fact, we avoided an out-of-control rowboat and successfully passed under another bridge. But fifteen minutes into my stretch of the rowing, after having spun us inadvertently into yet another 360 circle, I was nearly crying in frustration at my inability to do this well, and ready to switch back.
Richard was very kind. Lots of: "it takes time to learn," "you're used to kayaking, which is very different," and "really, you're doing quite well." Once I was back in the stern seat, and Ricky was skimming us masterfully along, I realized two things:
1. It looked so easy when he did it because he's good at it. (And isn't it a pleasure to watch someone do something well, particularly someone you love?)
2. Next time, I'm bringing a little drum I can beat as I chant "stroke, stroke" while Richard takes us up to ramming speed.
No wet suits needed, Justin, but we did wear fleece.
