Getting old’s a bitch.

Here we were, early morning, driving down I-5 pre-dawn, on our way to a baseball tournament.  Happy, happy. I was waxing on and on to Jim about how fabulous I was feeling, how I was just loving my new exercise regimen and all my new-found flexibility. How surely all the stretching was going to pull, lengthen and realign knotted muscle fibers, and deliver much needed nutrient-rich blood to over-stressed tendons and ligaments.  I was telling Jim how just yesterday I had achieved some personal bests in the stretching realm, gotten my body into positions I’m not sure I’ve ever managed.  And it felt so good!

We arrived in Ripon, somewhat south of Manteca, at about 8:00am and commenced to unload the car and ready ourselves for a long, sunny day of baseball watching. I was putting some sunscreen on a leg–one of my well-stretched legs–when suddenly, someone stabbed me with a big, giant butcher knife, right below my left hip.

Many nasty, horrible, X-rated words came to mind, but only gasps came out.  I struggled to find a position that would ease the sharp shooting pains… and sorta found one, but it was not exactly convenient, contorted and bent over the bumper of my car.  I found some–not much–relief on my knees, then finally acquiesced, at everyone’s suggestion, and just lay down on my back in the parking lot.  At least it was a pretty day.

See picture.

Maybe 20 minutes.  Had some nice conversations with nurturing Frances and funny Matt (pictured), and other people in passing cars.

Realizing I couldn’t stay there the whole day, I, with plenty of helpers, got to my feet and spent the next five hours shifting slowly from various standing positions to various sitting positions.  And pretty much, that’s still the situation.. 34 hours later.

I managed to ride in the passenger seat back to Davis, then join Jim for another pair of 80-minute drives to and from the east bay for his 40th high school reunion (hold the dancing).  Today, more or less homebound.. pumping myself full of non-steroidal anti-inflammatories, icing, and walking as much as I can tolerate so as not to freeze in this position forever.

Not sure how this one’s going to play out, but it’ll likely put a crimp in my fancy new exercise program and delay my comeback.

Ouch.

So, this is happening in Davis.. Davis’ contribution to the greater national, now global, movement.

Went by this morning to visit the group… a small crowd gathered on the deck beneath the giant oak in Central Park.

Maia, a young woman who appears to be the head organizer, said many more were there last night, 200 she said, and they expect to maintain a presence for the duration, whatever that might mean.  I hope they get a lot of support.  Hard to sustain energy when your effort is relatively isolated and quiet.

Talked for awhile with another woman, someone whose path I’ve crossed for 30 years, another of us Davis oldies. It was nice to see that she’d also wandered by.  We assured the younger organizer woman that there are thousands of people in Davis who sympathize with Occupy Davis’ efforts.  We just can’t all come sleep in the park, but we appreciate their work.  And that’s true.  I gave Maia $20 toward supplies.  Stopped short of offering our bathroom, though she seemed ready to inquire about that possibility.

Anyway.. the Occupy movement.  Or the 99% movement.  I hope it gets massive traction.

Debra DeAngelo wrote a good piece this morning in the Enterprise.  My favorite part was this:

Although the collective anger boiling over at the Occupy protests has pushed its way into corporate media coverage, it’s frequently footnoted with criticism and outright sneering that the protesters don’t have a clear message. Excuse me? They most certainly do have a message: “We’re angry!” That’s a message, you dolts!

The occupiers are like a guy rushed into the emergency room, clutching his chest in agony. His message is crystal clear: “I’m hurting!” It’s up to the doctor to figure out why he has chest pain, be it heart attack, stomach ulcers or that ax protruding from his sternum. I rather doubt the doc would sniff, “Come back when you know what the problem is, pal.” Unless, of course, the doctor’s paycheck is signed by Rupert Murdoch.

For me, the final blow to our already frail democracy occurred when the Supreme Court bestowed corporations with first amendment rights, as people, removing limits on corporate campaign contributions in the name of free speech.  Gag. Politicians can now officially be bought.  I mean, really?  How could that ever be considered fair and democratic?  Ever?

And when those same corporations control the media and shape the message…. yeah.

Easy to call it corporate greed, but business is just doing what business does, maximizing profit.  Really, rather than corporate greed, the problem is the rise of privately held government.  The government’s been bought.  The fate of elections, policy decisions–all of it–in the hands of private, corporate–not public–interests.

Corporate power trumps all. Game over.

Yep.  Jim’s 40th high school reunion.

Had a very nice time.  Met a lot of people from Jim’s past, a past that didn’t include me, so that was really interesting, enlightening and fascinating, even.  Like going back in time to get to know better someone you already know well.

So easy to go to somebody else’s reunion.  So fun not to know a soul.  No pressure, no anxiety.  I was just a spouse, so could happily and eagerly meet people with no worries, no background, no baggage, no future. Just the sparkly spouse.  Never minded standing by myself (which didn’t happen often, but like when they all gathered to take a group picture (Jim’s second row, sorta 3rd from left, woman’s arm on his shoulder)…

…or when Jim went off to dance with his sister’s husband’s sister, who was in his class (who knew? everyone in the family but me, apparently, and it was so nice to meet her finally)).

Never said no to servers wandering around with plates of tantalizing appetizers, kept a full wine glass, had some very fun conversations with people who ranged from short order cook (who doubled as a musician) to swim coach (yes, got some great advice) to hospital chief of staff. Enjoyed a few sets of totally recognizable rock music–except that one Byrds’ song–performed with hilariously wonderful energy by a band comprising class-of-’71 kids that the entire crowd knew and loved, whose members had known one another since kindergarten days. How great is all that?

Really great, as it turns out.

Snapped from the passenger seat, riding, uncharacteristically, shotgun.  The attendant was not amused, but I waved at him right after I took this picture, as if to say, don’t mind me, I’m just taking a picture, but it’s ok, you’re not really all that in it, go right on back to work. He waved back.  We drove away… off to pick Peter up from a junior high school dance.  Story for another time.

I just needed a quick photo, as time was ticking down on this day.

I was not driving because I’d had too much retsina at dinner.  One glass over my limit.  In my happy retsina place, but not right for driving. I’ve decided greek food shall be served at my memorial; I love it that much.

I’m reflecting on a day full of productivity–lots of reading, writing, necessary and satisfying communications, progress on the office cleaning front, and an hour of stretching, which did wonders for several traumatized body zones.  Getting old is hell. But stretching is heaven.

This is the eve of a brutal weekend to come: a far away baseball tournament with early games on both Saturday and Sunday, and Jim’s 40th high school reunion sandwiched in between.  This means we drive 80 miles south to a farming community in the central valley, watch a couple baseball games and drive home.  Then, a reunion-appropriate wardrobe change, a 70-mile drive west to Piedmont for an upscale evening event that will undoubtedly run late into the night, then back home to Davis.  Then, up the next morning before dawn to get back down the valley for another couple, three baseball games. Hoping for smooth flowing traffic and good attitudes throughout.

Once upon a time… I went to kindergarten.  I had Mrs. Culp, a nurturing older woman who taught in Room #1 at Valmonte Elementary School in Palos Verdes Estates, California.

And so did Wendy.

We played on the playground, listened to stories, drank milk from the milk wagon, napped on roll up mats, and created creatures out of clay (sorry it’s blurry).  This is possibly my most favorite piece of art ever:

(Thanks for recognizing this as a hippopotamus.)

It’s signed by the artist (probably with help from Mrs. Culp herself), should there be any doubt as to its authenticity:

Anyway.

Wendy and I met in kindergarten, in 1960 or thereabouts.  We also were in the same first and second grade classes, with Mrs. Marshall and Mrs. Von Mueller.  We went all the way through elementary school, Malaga Cove Junior High, and high school, criss-crossing in hallways, locker rooms, classes, Brownies, and, of course, Girl Scout Troop #262.  We lost touch after graduating from PVHS in 1974; she went off to UC Berkeley and I to UC San Diego and hadn’t seen or talked to one another since (though we’d connected in recent years through Facebook).

Until today.  Wendy came to Davis for a visit and we caught up on the last 37 years.

Turns out, we share lefty political sensibilities and, we also learned today, an affinity for food coops.  We talked non-stop for four hours about people we knew and recounted experiences we had during our 18 years on the peninsula. I’m amazed, though, at how different our experiences were, how differently we perceived things, how personal and unique our realities were.  Funny, considering we lived in exactly the same era; shared the same spaces; went to the same libraries, stores and movie theaters; wandered the same streets; did so many of the same things; knew mostly all the same people…   and yet…  our narratives are so entirely different.

Maybe it was because she had older siblings and I had younger ones; or because her parents were democrats–her dad worked with Bobby Kennedy and was in the Ambassador Hotel when he was shot, and her mom campaigned for Save Our Coastline–and mine were republicans; or she was a singer and I was a jock.. who knows.

She said I was shy and quiet, which I guess is true. I think maybe I thought people didn’t notice that (I thought I was rather full of myself, but maybe only I knew I was full of myself).  I see perhaps where Peter gets his shyness and cluelessness. She told me she got in all sorts of trouble for speaking her mind, which I didn’t know then, but which I look back on now and admire.

We sat for the longest time on my dad’s memorial bench across the street from our house (which is appropriately situated under a eucalyptus tree) and looked at photos she’d brought.  It was a pretty moving experience.

Sigh.. it was that kind of morning, with a lot of that kind of sharing.  Interesting, illuminating, and so much fun.

I definitely remade a friend.

 

T’was a sunny day

Mellow morning meadow mist

We had to go. Bah.

 

It was raining when we arrived on Monday afternoon, and drippy on our canvas roof for most of the night, but by Tuesday morning, nothing but sunshine.  Nothing like the clarity of the air in the mountains after a rain storm.

Explored Tuolumne Grove, a 2-mile walk up near Crane Flat, a place we’d passed for years and wondered about, but never visited.  Worthwhile.

We also did another short hike up to Inspiration point.  This one had some good elevation gain (4500′ to 5400′) and offered a nice view down the valley.

We drank champagne in Susan’s and Jim’s room at the Ahwahnee to celebrate their 25th anniversary, and then had a really good dinner in the Ahwahnee’s impressive dining room.

We got back in time to take a short walk.

You know, full moon illuminating granite walls.  Crazy beautiful.

Some Yosemite unusualness:

Going during the week.

Going to the Valley.

Staying in Curry Village.

Being there in the rain.

Being there in the Fall.

Being there without Peter.

Not going on a big hike.

Being there only a couple days.

All of that’s happened before, plenty of times, but it’s not the usual.  Usually, Jim, Peter and I go to Tuolumne Meadows for a long, planned vacation in the warm, dry summer, and hike a lot.

Still, even with the unusualness, felt the same sense of coming home and an intense longing to just stay.

Most tournament weekends begin this way: a before-dawn trip downtown to get coffee and baked goods for the road.

It’s the early start on the day.  It’s a huge cup of cafe au lait and a pastry someone else has made, all ready to go.  It’s the guy who knows your order (and we only go here on tournament mornings, mind you, because it’s the only place open).  It’s the quiet in the car, or NPR.  It’s the light fog layer over the wetlands.  It’s looking forward to a day of watching your favorite kiddo play baseball.

All of it.

We weren’t allowed to take pictures, so using this from the back of the book I’m reading.

Attended Jonathan Franzen’s talk tonight at the Mondavi.  Things that stuck, in no particular order (really, this is random and is mostly an emptying of my short term memory bank):

1. He was quirky, but thoughtful.  He was not a smooth speaker, nor did he appear entirely comfortable with the format, but he was very articulate once he found his bearings.  He read his prepared comments, appeared somewhat lost or self-conscious at the beginning, laughed a bit nervously, but, damn, the comments, once he got rolling, were rapid-fire brilliance.  During Q&A, he was halting, but genuine and delivered a few real gems.

2. Recurring themes were shame, guilt and depression, and the/his process of overcoming or dealing with these through writing.

3. A good process/exercise might be to make a list of things about which I feel guilty, about which I feel shame; these are bases for characters, stories. He talked about his own shame, and ran down a list: guilt at leaving his marriage when his wife was 35, childless; shame at not being more sexually experienced; guilt for this and that.. it was an interesting list. He talked about how his books are all about character, and he works on “what the story is that defines these characters”  He puts contemporaneous people into stressful circumstances.  Focuses on one moment and then spreads the moment out.  The goal is to pick up a character’s story when they’re in maximum crisis, dramatic and unpredictable.  You get good stuff when you inhabit the person at the moment of intense crisis. (This was an awesome part of his talk and took me right to his character in Corrections, Chip Lambert, who is SO Jonathan Franzen, so in crisis. And he admitted that, in fact, lots of characters are autobiographical, and his stories biographical, like Gary being his brother, experiences like Alfred wetting the bed–I haven’t gotten to that part in the book–being something that happened to his dad, and so on.)

4. Autobiographical writing.  His answer to this, however, was long and started with, no, his books are not autobiographical, but in another way, it’s all autobiographical, nearly by definition.  You can’t write in an unautobiographical way.  Everyone’s got one autobiographical book in them and after that, who knows.

5. Writer’s block (not a concept he likes) arises when you think you should be writing when actually you don’t want to.  He joked he’s dealt with writer’s block for 26 of his 30 years of writing.  It implies that we should ordinarily experience an utter free flowing of words, which doesn’t happen typically.  Writing comes when you’re ready.  Being blocked when you think you should write leads to depression; being where you don’t want to be leads to depression; being with somebody you don’t want to be with leads to depression. Brain/ body go on strike.

6. When his mom was dying, he wanted, before she was gone, a sense of how she liked his books, his writing.  She said it was not about him.  Her life was about her. The lesson she left him with was, ‘worry not about what others think about you, because they aren’t, they are more concerned with their own life.’ She was more concerned with the last days of her life, for her, it was about her, as it usually is.

7. When he’s thinking about whether he’s going to lend his name to a work (of someone else’s), he reads it, and looks for cliches.  No cliches on the first page, or he won’t continue. In a whole book, maybe one every ten pages.  He went on to talk about cliches–the good, the bad.

8. Social media is like cigarettes used to be, you’re waiting for your next hit, your next opportunity to be stimulated.

9. Read Sabbath’s Theater (Phillip Roth); The Great Gatsby (F. Scott Fitzgerald); Kafka (um..); Ian McEwan (not sure which); The Blue Flower (Penelope Fitzgerald); Age of Innocence (Edith Wharton); Elmore Leonard.  These were some of the books and/or authors he mentioned, drew inspiration from, or just thought they were good.

10. A guy asked why black people don’t appear in his novels, or rather, he identified, very specifically, the relatively few references in various of Franzen’s books. “Well-researched” was Franzen’s initial response and he appeared not a little uncomfortable with the question.  He went on to say, he was only uncomfortable with part of it (I can’t remember which part, though he was specific), then fessed up: he was uncomfortable with the whole question, all racial issues (and questions) are uncomfortable. I know I felt uncomfortable for him, as I was sure the guy had a point. Franzen responded that it’s true, there are few instances of black experience, or black characters, and it’s because his life experience is such.  He could, perhaps should, and that would be good, but it’s not his experience.  He went on to say he checks “goodness” (he didn’t say political correctness) at the door and goes with truth. It seemed not an excuse, he seemed not on the defense, just his truth.  Earlier in the talk, he’d talked about “good art” versus “good personhood,” and I think that applies here, too.  He spoke about that being a conflict for writers.  Anyway, that was the last question and the talk ended right there and fairly abruptly as he muttered something to the interviewer (a professor, presumably, from the UCD english department who wasn’t very adept at asking questions or drawing Franzen out at all) and then walked right off the stage. I don’t even remember clapping.

The trouble with my summary is it’s so limited.  I thought if I could write as soon as I got home, I might remember the best parts.. but, no.. this is not a good summary.  And it’s too out of context to be meaningful for anyone reading it.  His thoughts in my words?…. uh, no.  Let’s not do that.

What was more significant for me was the experience of seeing him and hearing him and putting a human face and voice to the phenomenal words that I’ve read.  It was also hugely inspiring.  It’s good to listen to authors, especially ones I find so brilliant.  It’s good to see he’s accessible, not as a person in my life, but as a human.  That means writing is not such a ridiculously abstract and unattainable pursuit.

Here’s the stage:

And here’s Franzen at the book signing table afterward: