I am stoked. One of my Flicker photos was included (with my permission) in an online guide to Reno. We were up there a couple of Septembers ago for the Great Reno Balloon Race and I took a bunch of pictures. It's an amazing event to see. It starts before dawn and attracts a huge crowd from all over the world. Then it ends. Sarah won $700 playing the nickel slots that day as well. Generally a pretty good day.
Not that I have a great desire to be known as an expert on the attractions of Reno, but it's nice to see someone pick up my stuff for attribution. Who knows, this could lead to a great career. I could quit my job in the fortune cookie factory, build a studio and start to really experience art for its own sake. Fortune and fame await!
Friday, August 15, 2008
Monday, August 4, 2008
Bike To Work
My friend Lesley put an entry on her blog the other day about her daily bike commute to work. She rides about 4.5 miles and it takes her about a half an hour on the Rock Island Trail in Lincoln, NE. I know that trail pretty well, having ridden it several times when I was living there. It is a peaceful linear oasis in the middle of a city, and it is designed to keep bikes and cars apart and safe from each other. Lesley is lucky to live so close to such a nice trail.
I live close to a nice trail as well. When I worked in East Sacramento I used to ride my bike to work. My ride along the American River Bike Trail and through the Norman Rockwell neighborhoods of East Sac was a peaceful way to start the day. In the mornings I would see magpies, pheasants, rabbits and the occasional coyote. Even wild chickens. The ride back was a great way to unwind from the craziness of work. The whole thing was about 18 miles round trip, and after a couple of months I was in pretty good shape and had lost about 30 pounds. When I left that job the only thing I missed was the ride (I was reunited with the weight over the next couple of years).
This time when I started looking for work in Sacramento, one of the prerequisites for any job was that I would be able to ride my bike to work again. I wouldn’t say that money wasn't high on the list, but ability to ride was definitely near the top. It worked out, although now my route takes me less on the American River Parkway and more through some of the grittier areas of Greater Sacramento.
As I've tried to simplify and downsize my life a little bit my midlife crises have also simplified and downsized. I used to buy a new car when I got a wild hair up, but for the last few years it’s been bicycles. I’ve had a Trek Mountain Bike, a Trek Hybrid, and a couple of no-name brand bikes. Lately I’ve been buying Townie bikes by the Electra Bike Co. These are nice comfortable, laid back bikes, but my latest one (a Townie 21) is geared so that I can also make a reasonable amount of speed and take some of the easier hills.
My ride is about 4.8 miles – it’s 10 miles to drive. It starts at my front door, winds through my neighborhood to the bike trail where I cross the American River and go through Riverbend Park (formerly Goethe - local pronunciation is "gate-y") just a short way to the streets of Rancho Cordova. While I’m still in the park I see lots more bike commuters than I did just a month ago. The price of gas has started to transform the nation in ways that we don’t understand just yet, but this is probably one of the more positive aspects.
In the park I catch a glimpse of the river, perhaps see some wild turkeys grazing along, and always there are the walkers, power walkers, dog walkers, runners, bikers and strollers. This is a park that is well loved and well used.
Unfortunately I get out of the parkway all too soon. The first neighborhoods on the other side of the river are fairly similar to ours. The houses are well tended and the people seem friendly. There is a Regional Transit (RT) Light Rail station not too far away, and some good samaritan bike commuter has thoughtfully
marked the pavement to show the way from the trail to RT -B2RT- and back. You can take your bike on the light rail to get downtown, although in the commute hours that's probably about as popular as a stinkbomb with your fellow passengers.
Rancho is a town that has a reputation for being pretty rough, not just around the edges, but in its core. As I move farther from the river and cross Coloma Road the neighborhood gets more and more seedy. Approaching Folsom Boulevard
there are boarded up apartments and broken glass in the street, and the businesses that have sprung up to cater to the immigrant communities that make Rancho their first stop on the road to the American Dream.
This part of the ride is far less bike friendly than the beginning. There tend to be more tricked out muscle cars, huge pickups and people oblivious to everything outside their cars. I always have the impression that clipping me with their vehicles wouldn’t make some of them
slow down, much less stop. I think about these clowns when I see people complaining on TV about how hard their lives have become since gas has spiked. Geez, their lives might be that much easier if they slowed down a little bit. Mine certainly would.
The worst part is getting over Highway 50; fortunately it’s a short stretch. There is a massive six lane overpass for cars, but little space for pedestrians and bikes. I don’t have the stones to ride in the “bike lane” here, so I ride on the sidewalk. It’s technically illegal, but it's not usually a problem unless there is another bike or a pedestrian. Then one of us has to stop or move off the sidewalk to pass. I definitely think there should be better protection for bicyclists and pedestrians – truly separate lanes and bridges.
The overpass reminds me of the old joke about how the traffic in LA makes everybody a baseball fan -- because if you’re not a Dodger you’re an Angel. (Ok, so it wasn't maybe the funniest joke in the world - so sue me.)
Finally, I get onto the wide street where my office block is located, with its campus of lawn and trees surrounded by other square office blocks. The whole trip takes me about a half an hour and I have enough time to splash on some cold water in the bathroom and change into more appropriate work clothes. In the afternoon, I just do the same thing in reverse, plus I get to jump in the pool at the end.
Despite the drawbacks of the last part of the ride, I vastly prefer bike commuting to driving. The other day I had to drive,
and the traffic was backed up and aggravating. I got to work feeling frazzled and irritated. Saving the world and the cost of gas aside, the connection with the outside
world, the satisfaction of self propulsion, and the added endorphins from a little exercise make a great start to the work day. And when work is over there is no better way to unwind and reach home with all the kinks worked out. I plan to do this as often as I can, although not in the rain.I want to ride my bicycle
I want to ride my bike
I want to ride my bicycle
I want to ride it where I like
-- “Bicycle Race”, by Queen
Friday, June 27, 2008
Feel The Love
My neighbor (we’ll call her “Darleen”) is really into free love. Not only does she have a bastard child of her own, as well as three younger children by a guy that she was “probably” married to, but now her bastard child has produced, at 20ish, a bastard child of her own. They’re not sure if the father is the guy from Texas or the guy from Canada, but they named the baby after his wealthy grandfather in any case. Smart move.
Darleen lives with “Bubba” (not his real name) and together they parent Darleen’s clutch of free range white trash pequeninos. Darleen also raises, and shares with the neighborhood, a varied and never ending array of animal friends. For a while she raised free range pit bulls, then free range rabbits. Currently she has a Jack Russell Terrier/Chihuahua mix named Pork Chop, a border collie type dog named Guiness (did I mention that Darleen and Bubba are recovering alcoholics?), and a whistling bird that they keep in a cage on the back patio of their house. And cats. Lots and lots of cats.
The cats probably started out as domestic cats, but they're feral now. Regular as clockwork the mommas produce litters of kittens. (Sweet mystery of life!) The boy kittens grow up and impregnate their mothers and sisters and more cats appear. They have inbred so much that some of them are deformed and retarded. There are no spay and neuter clinics or shots or wormings for these cats. No Fancy Feast meals or kitty kat birthday parties. No one pays any particular attention to the cats except the youngest daughter, Eleana, who is a little dim in the attic, except when it comes to animals. In fact, Eleana may be part feral cat herself. I have no doubt that she, at least, loves the cats.
The cats love to use our front yard as a bathroom, and our backyard as part of their transportation network. They also love to be on top of my truck for the view and under it for the shade and protection from the rain. They leave little muddy paw tracks on the hood and down the windshield of my truck. I just love to see it.
This morning, Sarah saw one of the latest crop of kittens jump up on the wheel of the truck, and it seemed to disappear into the engine compartment. So this morning, because I love my truck, and I love not paying to have the engine rebuilt and steam cleaned, I found myself lifting the hood on the truck before I started the engine. Just to make sure there was no little bundle of cat love up in the belts.
Feel the love.
Darleen lives with “Bubba” (not his real name) and together they parent Darleen’s clutch of free range white trash pequeninos. Darleen also raises, and shares with the neighborhood, a varied and never ending array of animal friends. For a while she raised free range pit bulls, then free range rabbits. Currently she has a Jack Russell Terrier/Chihuahua mix named Pork Chop, a border collie type dog named Guiness (did I mention that Darleen and Bubba are recovering alcoholics?), and a whistling bird that they keep in a cage on the back patio of their house. And cats. Lots and lots of cats.
The cats probably started out as domestic cats, but they're feral now. Regular as clockwork the mommas produce litters of kittens. (Sweet mystery of life!) The boy kittens grow up and impregnate their mothers and sisters and more cats appear. They have inbred so much that some of them are deformed and retarded. There are no spay and neuter clinics or shots or wormings for these cats. No Fancy Feast meals or kitty kat birthday parties. No one pays any particular attention to the cats except the youngest daughter, Eleana, who is a little dim in the attic, except when it comes to animals. In fact, Eleana may be part feral cat herself. I have no doubt that she, at least, loves the cats.
The cats love to use our front yard as a bathroom, and our backyard as part of their transportation network. They also love to be on top of my truck for the view and under it for the shade and protection from the rain. They leave little muddy paw tracks on the hood and down the windshield of my truck. I just love to see it.
This morning, Sarah saw one of the latest crop of kittens jump up on the wheel of the truck, and it seemed to disappear into the engine compartment. So this morning, because I love my truck, and I love not paying to have the engine rebuilt and steam cleaned, I found myself lifting the hood on the truck before I started the engine. Just to make sure there was no little bundle of cat love up in the belts.
Feel the love.
Tuesday, April 15, 2008
Olympic Torch Song
“WE-WEL-COME-YOU-TO-BEIJING.” 
There is a group of Chinese occupying some high ground on Justin Herman Plaza, chanting and waving Chinese, American and Olympic flags and waving placards with the little Hello Kitty Olympic icons.
We’ve come to the San Francisco Embarcadero to watch the Olympic Torch Relay. Also coincidentally to see the carnival going on in front of the Ferry Building. The place is an ocean of flags and signs and people carrying them. Some people are just their own sign. This is a zone of conflict, and all the conflicting factions are mixing together to shout it out. But it’s all about raised voices, no threatening gestures or physical contact that I can see. It’s San Francisco street theater and all the actors are out in force.
People have gathered together in affinity groups and tribes. They wear unifying T-Shirts and matching hats, much like a Japanese tour group. The pro-Tibet people are draped in Tibetan flags and shirts calling for a Free Tibet. They have handed out signs that say “Another ____ for a Free Tibet,” allowing impromptu supporters to fill in the blank to identify themselves with some other sub-group. Thus “Another Jew/African American/Brother/Veteran/American/Blank for a Free Tibet” is marching through the plaza and up and down the Embarcadero. Tibet for the Tibetans!
The Chinese Americans, the principal and most vocal supporters of the Chinese government, are carrying bouque
ts of Chinese, US and Olympic flags. There are a lot of older Chinese, and I think how odd it is to see them waving the Communist flag like this. Not so many years ago this was a Kuomintang town, and waving the Communist flag would have been like waving a red flag – oops, I mean it would have invited reprisal. Clearly there is a national pride at work here that goes far deeper than politics.
There is a subgroup of people in green T-shirts and hats that are protesting China’s involvement with Sudan and Darfur. End the Genocide! Shame on China! Another group of South Vietnamese wave the old flag and carry commercially lettered signs protesting t
he take over of the Sparacel Islands by the Chinese government (I think these are uninhabited except for oil explorers). Other groups include Uyghurs (a muslim minority in what used to be Eastern Turkestan until the Chinese invaded in 1949, about the same time they took over Tibet), animal rights demonstrators concerned about the plight of dogs and cats in China, a group from Rockridge (Oakland) protesting MSG, and a homeless guy selling the Street Sheet and shouting “what about the plight of the homeless right here in the US.” Right. Free Chinese food! For everybody!
This being SF, there is the Dada group, including a guy carrying a sign saying “I can’t afford an actual sign” a skater dude waving his board like a placard, and a group of women dressed in pink Lady Liberty outfits. There are also a lot of people who don’t have a side, who just want to se
e the Torch and who like to think the Olympics are supposed to transcend politics. I’m just here for the show.
People are passionate about their causes and they engage in impromptu debates. Clusters form around a couple of people in passionate discussion about the historical position of Tibet within China. A Chinese guy tries to frame the debate about whether or not Tibet is really part of China by suggesting that California was originally part of Mexico, and why don't we give it back. I overhear this enough to think th
at there were some talking points worked up ahead of time.
“Shame on China!” yells one faction. “That just means you don’t like Chinese people!” yells a Chinese woman wearing a full face black plastic sun visor (dubbed Darth Vader by various onlookers). A blonde woman who looks like Jenna Elfman from Dhama and Greg calmly but loudly responds “I love the Chinese people, so stop yelling at me you Fascist bitch!.”
I wonder if they'll have dragon dancers in Buenos Aires.
There are lots of people there for the social scene - MySpace Radicals. I overhear a guy on a cell ph
one trying to locate someone else say “but I am waving a sign” as if his commitment has been challenged. Another guy wearing an Obama T-shirt is walking away from the demonstration saying into his cell “I should have worn my Human Rights Watch shirt instead.” For him this is more a fashion show than anything else, and he let down the side by not having the correct couture. Another, walking toward the show tells whoever is listening, “I just wanted to get in a little protesting. You know, get in on this historic moment.”
As the ti
me for the start of the relay nears, the crowd swells, groups of partisans eddy and swirl together, alongside each other, but not touching. Where is the torch? Finally, the word begins to filter through the crowd that the torch dance has moved to an undisclosed location (shades of Dick Cheney), and discouraged, disgusted, people start to drift away.
The Pro-Tibet folks probably feel like they won the day by forcing the change, but they probably would have liked to see a little more dramatic action. I don’t think anybody else (maybe excepting Gavin Newsom and Heather Fong) is satisfied with the end of this gavotte. Everybody had the chance to sound off, but most of them didn’t get heard except by people who already agree with them.
There is a group of Chinese occupying some high ground on Justin Herman Plaza, chanting and waving Chinese, American and Olympic flags and waving placards with the little Hello Kitty Olympic icons.
We’ve come to the San Francisco Embarcadero to watch the Olympic Torch Relay. Also coincidentally to see the carnival going on in front of the Ferry Building. The place is an ocean of flags and signs and people carrying them. Some people are just their own sign. This is a zone of conflict, and all the conflicting factions are mixing together to shout it out. But it’s all about raised voices, no threatening gestures or physical contact that I can see. It’s San Francisco street theater and all the actors are out in force.
People have gathered together in affinity groups and tribes. They wear unifying T-Shirts and matching hats, much like a Japanese tour group. The pro-Tibet people are draped in Tibetan flags and shirts calling for a Free Tibet. They have handed out signs that say “Another ____ for a Free Tibet,” allowing impromptu supporters to fill in the blank to identify themselves with some other sub-group. Thus “Another Jew/African American/Brother/Veteran/American/Blank for a Free Tibet” is marching through the plaza and up and down the Embarcadero. Tibet for the Tibetans!The Chinese Americans, the principal and most vocal supporters of the Chinese government, are carrying bouque
ts of Chinese, US and Olympic flags. There are a lot of older Chinese, and I think how odd it is to see them waving the Communist flag like this. Not so many years ago this was a Kuomintang town, and waving the Communist flag would have been like waving a red flag – oops, I mean it would have invited reprisal. Clearly there is a national pride at work here that goes far deeper than politics.There is a subgroup of people in green T-shirts and hats that are protesting China’s involvement with Sudan and Darfur. End the Genocide! Shame on China! Another group of South Vietnamese wave the old flag and carry commercially lettered signs protesting t
he take over of the Sparacel Islands by the Chinese government (I think these are uninhabited except for oil explorers). Other groups include Uyghurs (a muslim minority in what used to be Eastern Turkestan until the Chinese invaded in 1949, about the same time they took over Tibet), animal rights demonstrators concerned about the plight of dogs and cats in China, a group from Rockridge (Oakland) protesting MSG, and a homeless guy selling the Street Sheet and shouting “what about the plight of the homeless right here in the US.” Right. Free Chinese food! For everybody!This being SF, there is the Dada group, including a guy carrying a sign saying “I can’t afford an actual sign” a skater dude waving his board like a placard, and a group of women dressed in pink Lady Liberty outfits. There are also a lot of people who don’t have a side, who just want to se
e the Torch and who like to think the Olympics are supposed to transcend politics. I’m just here for the show.People are passionate about their causes and they engage in impromptu debates. Clusters form around a couple of people in passionate discussion about the historical position of Tibet within China. A Chinese guy tries to frame the debate about whether or not Tibet is really part of China by suggesting that California was originally part of Mexico, and why don't we give it back. I overhear this enough to think th
at there were some talking points worked up ahead of time.“Shame on China!” yells one faction. “That just means you don’t like Chinese people!” yells a Chinese woman wearing a full face black plastic sun visor (dubbed Darth Vader by various onlookers). A blonde woman who looks like Jenna Elfman from Dhama and Greg calmly but loudly responds “I love the Chinese people, so stop yelling at me you Fascist bitch!.”
I wonder if they'll have dragon dancers in Buenos Aires.
There are lots of people there for the social scene - MySpace Radicals. I overhear a guy on a cell ph
one trying to locate someone else say “but I am waving a sign” as if his commitment has been challenged. Another guy wearing an Obama T-shirt is walking away from the demonstration saying into his cell “I should have worn my Human Rights Watch shirt instead.” For him this is more a fashion show than anything else, and he let down the side by not having the correct couture. Another, walking toward the show tells whoever is listening, “I just wanted to get in a little protesting. You know, get in on this historic moment.”As the ti
me for the start of the relay nears, the crowd swells, groups of partisans eddy and swirl together, alongside each other, but not touching. Where is the torch? Finally, the word begins to filter through the crowd that the torch dance has moved to an undisclosed location (shades of Dick Cheney), and discouraged, disgusted, people start to drift away.The Pro-Tibet folks probably feel like they won the day by forcing the change, but they probably would have liked to see a little more dramatic action. I don’t think anybody else (maybe excepting Gavin Newsom and Heather Fong) is satisfied with the end of this gavotte. Everybody had the chance to sound off, but most of them didn’t get heard except by people who already agree with them.
Saturday, March 22, 2008
Jury Duty – Day Two
Come back at 9:00 am means there is no close-by parking, so I have to park half way to Davis. It's rainy and cold and half the lot is a pond. I got here a little early to get through the security check and get into the court on time. I’m a little early, but there are lots of others milling around in the corridor. The court room is not open yet.
About 9:15 Scott the Bailiff comes out and tells us to come back around 10:00. I go get some coffee. Hang around looking at the people in the hall, wondering what their stories are.
Finally around 10:00 Scott comes out and tells us to listen up. He reads nine or ten names from a list and those people are dismissed. He doesn’t say why, but my bet is that they all work or worked for Mega-Mart at some time. The rest of us go back in, and the ones that were in the jury box yesterday go back to their assigned seats.
All of yesterday’s hardship cases are gone, in addition to the ones from this morning’s list, so there is a lot more room in the gallery. This courtroom is tiny. The Bailiff has a computer in front of him, and he is shopping online – looks like maybe Lands End. Today there are more people at the council tables. The attorneys don’t introduce them.
Finally the Judge comes out and we get started. After the pleasantries he asks again if there are any additional hardship cases as a result of the length of the trial or any other reason. One woman says she is sole support because her husband’s restaurant is closed right now. She is dismissed.
Now the judge asks the panel some questions based on their responses to the survey. He makes a few notes but doesn’t dismiss anybody. He's not giving that free pass away. He is a very straight faced guy, no way to tell what he might be thinking. Don’t play poker with this guy.
Next, the Plaintiff’s Attorney takes his turn. He starts with a little overview of the case. They are claiming sexual harassment, and the plaintiff is asking for damages in the seven figures (that’s like $9,000,000!). He is going to bring in psychologists and other experts. He wants us to know up front that the plaintiff (Marcy) has used illegal drugs, has had an abortion (she claims the Manager got her with child), and has been in jail. As he begins to question the panel individually, most of his questions revolve around whether the jurors can separate Marcy's lurid lifestyle that from the facts of the case and still be fair. He reminds us that if there is something we would rather not say in open court we can talk to the judge privately. He’s all business, but full of compassion and controlled outrage. The ends of his shirt collar poke up awkwardly as if he is too busy to find a collar bar in the morning. He should wear button-down shirts and he wouldn’t have that problem. But his hair is definitely well groomed.
During the questioning one guy is asked about his answer to a survey question, and his response is “I don’t read so good, so I answered as best I could.” There are at least two others who don’t speak so good the English too. There is a firefighter who says that he is a union member and couldn’t probably be fair to Mega-Mart given their anti-union policies. Another woman is an employee of the Elk Grove Police Department, and she insists that she would have a hard time being impartial to someone who had been in jail.
About 11:30 the Judge bids “counsel approach the bench” and they have a little huddle over to the side. I wonder if they are trying to figure out what they are going to do for lunch.
Oddly, right after this little sidebar, we break for lunch. I go down to K Street and have a pretty bad sandwich and read my book. We have two hours, and I walk around a little, but it’s still raining, and not very pleasant.
After lunch the union firefighter has been dismissed.
Now the Mega-Mart attorney begins questioning the panel. This guy is smarmy looking. Kind of tubby, with greasy hair, a bad suit and a very insincere way of trying to sound sincere. He tries to set everybody at ease by making a couple of bad quips. “When the Plaintiffs counsel says seven figures, we think he’s definitely asking too much, unless you count the two places after the decimal point” (chortle). He makes a little jab at K-Mart when someone mentions that store. Most of his questions seem designed to eliminate people who would be hostile to Mega-Mart. He tells us that he will show us what a fine upstanding guy the Defendant (Larry) is. He implies that Marcy is no better than she ought to be. He really reaches for an inference about the fact that her brother in law was in Reno on the same day that she was, which is the day that Marcy says Larry knocked her up. Hmmm….just hints of things to come. Both sides have mentioned oral sex, copulation, abortion, jail time, illegal drug use; this should be sordid.
Smarmy finishes his questioning, and they go out with the judge to confer on who will be cut. They’re back pretty quickly, and begin the round of peremptory challenges. The judge wants us to understand that being dismissed is not a reflection on anybody’s integrity. The People thank and dismiss the Elk Grove Police Department employee and she leaves smiling. The worst of the non-English speakers are dismissed. After the first round, they bring some more up, and everybody has to shift seats. Four more people are seated, some of them are thrown out, and then I get seated. They ask me some questions, and I answer truthfully, and they accept me as juror #14, an alternate. Everybody else gets to leave. Shit.
We are sworn in and admonished not to talk to anybody or to form any opinions. We can leave and come back at 9 am tomorrow.
Come back at 9:00 am means there is no close-by parking, so I have to park half way to Davis. It's rainy and cold and half the lot is a pond. I got here a little early to get through the security check and get into the court on time. I’m a little early, but there are lots of others milling around in the corridor. The court room is not open yet.
About 9:15 Scott the Bailiff comes out and tells us to come back around 10:00. I go get some coffee. Hang around looking at the people in the hall, wondering what their stories are.
Finally around 10:00 Scott comes out and tells us to listen up. He reads nine or ten names from a list and those people are dismissed. He doesn’t say why, but my bet is that they all work or worked for Mega-Mart at some time. The rest of us go back in, and the ones that were in the jury box yesterday go back to their assigned seats.
All of yesterday’s hardship cases are gone, in addition to the ones from this morning’s list, so there is a lot more room in the gallery. This courtroom is tiny. The Bailiff has a computer in front of him, and he is shopping online – looks like maybe Lands End. Today there are more people at the council tables. The attorneys don’t introduce them.
Finally the Judge comes out and we get started. After the pleasantries he asks again if there are any additional hardship cases as a result of the length of the trial or any other reason. One woman says she is sole support because her husband’s restaurant is closed right now. She is dismissed.
Now the judge asks the panel some questions based on their responses to the survey. He makes a few notes but doesn’t dismiss anybody. He's not giving that free pass away. He is a very straight faced guy, no way to tell what he might be thinking. Don’t play poker with this guy.
Next, the Plaintiff’s Attorney takes his turn. He starts with a little overview of the case. They are claiming sexual harassment, and the plaintiff is asking for damages in the seven figures (that’s like $9,000,000!). He is going to bring in psychologists and other experts. He wants us to know up front that the plaintiff (Marcy) has used illegal drugs, has had an abortion (she claims the Manager got her with child), and has been in jail. As he begins to question the panel individually, most of his questions revolve around whether the jurors can separate Marcy's lurid lifestyle that from the facts of the case and still be fair. He reminds us that if there is something we would rather not say in open court we can talk to the judge privately. He’s all business, but full of compassion and controlled outrage. The ends of his shirt collar poke up awkwardly as if he is too busy to find a collar bar in the morning. He should wear button-down shirts and he wouldn’t have that problem. But his hair is definitely well groomed.
During the questioning one guy is asked about his answer to a survey question, and his response is “I don’t read so good, so I answered as best I could.” There are at least two others who don’t speak so good the English too. There is a firefighter who says that he is a union member and couldn’t probably be fair to Mega-Mart given their anti-union policies. Another woman is an employee of the Elk Grove Police Department, and she insists that she would have a hard time being impartial to someone who had been in jail.
About 11:30 the Judge bids “counsel approach the bench” and they have a little huddle over to the side. I wonder if they are trying to figure out what they are going to do for lunch.
Oddly, right after this little sidebar, we break for lunch. I go down to K Street and have a pretty bad sandwich and read my book. We have two hours, and I walk around a little, but it’s still raining, and not very pleasant.
After lunch the union firefighter has been dismissed.
Now the Mega-Mart attorney begins questioning the panel. This guy is smarmy looking. Kind of tubby, with greasy hair, a bad suit and a very insincere way of trying to sound sincere. He tries to set everybody at ease by making a couple of bad quips. “When the Plaintiffs counsel says seven figures, we think he’s definitely asking too much, unless you count the two places after the decimal point” (chortle). He makes a little jab at K-Mart when someone mentions that store. Most of his questions seem designed to eliminate people who would be hostile to Mega-Mart. He tells us that he will show us what a fine upstanding guy the Defendant (Larry) is. He implies that Marcy is no better than she ought to be. He really reaches for an inference about the fact that her brother in law was in Reno on the same day that she was, which is the day that Marcy says Larry knocked her up. Hmmm….just hints of things to come. Both sides have mentioned oral sex, copulation, abortion, jail time, illegal drug use; this should be sordid.
Smarmy finishes his questioning, and they go out with the judge to confer on who will be cut. They’re back pretty quickly, and begin the round of peremptory challenges. The judge wants us to understand that being dismissed is not a reflection on anybody’s integrity. The People thank and dismiss the Elk Grove Police Department employee and she leaves smiling. The worst of the non-English speakers are dismissed. After the first round, they bring some more up, and everybody has to shift seats. Four more people are seated, some of them are thrown out, and then I get seated. They ask me some questions, and I answer truthfully, and they accept me as juror #14, an alternate. Everybody else gets to leave. Shit.
We are sworn in and admonished not to talk to anybody or to form any opinions. We can leave and come back at 9 am tomorrow.
Friday, March 21, 2008
Jury Duty – Day One
I have been summoned for Jury Duty. My right and duty. The foundation of the democratic system.
The courthouse is a security controlled access area. You have to line up to go through a metal detector and have your bags x rayed just like at an airport. But instead of being with a bunch of unwashed airline passengers, you are with a bunch of unwashed lowlifes. The TSA flunkies have morphed into armed Sheriffs. Jury people mingle with all the criminals at liberty, the attorneys (they wear suits) and the police (they wear guns). The line extends out the door and it is cold outside.
Once inside, you line up again to get into the jury assembly room. They have only called three groups for this morning (of a possible 15), but the line extends into the hall and all the way through two additional rooms before you get to the counter where you get checked in. They give you the Voir-Dire questionnaire, and you are told to fill it out while you wait. There aren’t enough chairs in the room. What chairs there are are set up like seats in an airport waiting area. There are also large screen TVs all over so that you can hear and see your indoctrination. The Voir-Dire asks a bunch of personal information about you, your family, where everyone works, and any criminal or police connections.
About 8:30 they call my name and I am sent to Department 38 on the fifth floor. The elevators are full to bursting, so I take the stairs up three flights. Between the 4th and the 5th floor people from my group start to come back. They aren’t ready for us until 9:00, so go back to the jury assembly area.
About 9:15 we are told to go back up, but when we get there we still can’t get into the room just yet. Finally around 9:30 the court clerk and the bailiff come out and we are about to begin. They call off 18 names from a randomized list of the people in the pool. This is the first cut, and they are seated in the jury box. The rest of us are asked to just take seats in the audience area.
We raise our right hands to swear that we will shut up and listen. Then we are told to sit. Thirty seconds later we are told to stand up as the Judge comes in. Then we are told to sit. There are no hymnals, but it reminds me of church. I don’t suppose we are going to have to pray though.
The Judge is very friendly. He introduces the attorneys and the parties to the suit and gives us all some general instructions about not talking with anybody else about the case, not investigating on our own. He tells us the case is a civil case -- a Mega-Mart employee against Mega-Mart and the Manager of Mega-Mart, claiming sexual harassment (I have cleverly disguised the name of this major retailer headquarted somewhere in the South). He lets us know that it’s going to take about 15 days He asks us about hardships, like does anybody have one that would make it impossible to serve on the jury for that long. About nine people raise their hands, and the bailiff gives them a questionnaire to describe their hardship. The rest of us get surveys that ask us about how we feel about damage awards, emotional distress, awards for emotional distress, do we know anybody in law enforcement, educational and work background, union membership, and can you be fair to Mega-Mart? Many of the questions are repetitions of the questions from the Voir-Dire. Once we complete the surveys we are told that we can leave and come back at nine the next morning. We give the survey and the Voir-Dire to the clerk on the way out.
The people with the hardship cases are asked to stay behind.
Outta here.
The courthouse is a security controlled access area. You have to line up to go through a metal detector and have your bags x rayed just like at an airport. But instead of being with a bunch of unwashed airline passengers, you are with a bunch of unwashed lowlifes. The TSA flunkies have morphed into armed Sheriffs. Jury people mingle with all the criminals at liberty, the attorneys (they wear suits) and the police (they wear guns). The line extends out the door and it is cold outside.
Once inside, you line up again to get into the jury assembly room. They have only called three groups for this morning (of a possible 15), but the line extends into the hall and all the way through two additional rooms before you get to the counter where you get checked in. They give you the Voir-Dire questionnaire, and you are told to fill it out while you wait. There aren’t enough chairs in the room. What chairs there are are set up like seats in an airport waiting area. There are also large screen TVs all over so that you can hear and see your indoctrination. The Voir-Dire asks a bunch of personal information about you, your family, where everyone works, and any criminal or police connections.
About 8:30 they call my name and I am sent to Department 38 on the fifth floor. The elevators are full to bursting, so I take the stairs up three flights. Between the 4th and the 5th floor people from my group start to come back. They aren’t ready for us until 9:00, so go back to the jury assembly area.
About 9:15 we are told to go back up, but when we get there we still can’t get into the room just yet. Finally around 9:30 the court clerk and the bailiff come out and we are about to begin. They call off 18 names from a randomized list of the people in the pool. This is the first cut, and they are seated in the jury box. The rest of us are asked to just take seats in the audience area.
We raise our right hands to swear that we will shut up and listen. Then we are told to sit. Thirty seconds later we are told to stand up as the Judge comes in. Then we are told to sit. There are no hymnals, but it reminds me of church. I don’t suppose we are going to have to pray though.
The Judge is very friendly. He introduces the attorneys and the parties to the suit and gives us all some general instructions about not talking with anybody else about the case, not investigating on our own. He tells us the case is a civil case -- a Mega-Mart employee against Mega-Mart and the Manager of Mega-Mart, claiming sexual harassment (I have cleverly disguised the name of this major retailer headquarted somewhere in the South). He lets us know that it’s going to take about 15 days He asks us about hardships, like does anybody have one that would make it impossible to serve on the jury for that long. About nine people raise their hands, and the bailiff gives them a questionnaire to describe their hardship. The rest of us get surveys that ask us about how we feel about damage awards, emotional distress, awards for emotional distress, do we know anybody in law enforcement, educational and work background, union membership, and can you be fair to Mega-Mart? Many of the questions are repetitions of the questions from the Voir-Dire. Once we complete the surveys we are told that we can leave and come back at nine the next morning. We give the survey and the Voir-Dire to the clerk on the way out.
The people with the hardship cases are asked to stay behind.
Outta here.
Tuesday, February 26, 2008
Limoncello
I started another batch of limoncello yesterday, so I thought that I should write down the steps.
Limoncello is a wonderful lemon flavored liqueur that Andrew and I first tasted in Buenos Aires. At the end of a fine Italian meal at a restaurant named Guido’s, Guido himself came around with a bottle of this yellow drink in an unlabeled bottle, and poured each of us a shot glass full. It was sweet, but not too sweet, and very potent. We both liked it. I had read an article about making it some time before in the SacBee, so when we got home I looked up some different recipes and found one that I liked. I made a first batch, and when it was done it was a hit, convincing even Sarah that it was delicious. Having made it and drunk some, and since our lemons are in full production right now, I decided to start another batch and document the process.
I started with 30 lemons off our tree. Since they were fresh from the tree, there was no wax to consider, but lemons sold in grocery stores are coated with wax, and it needs to be scrubbed off in warm water if you are going to use commercially grown lemons. Also, there are no chemical fertilizers in my lemon tree. Not because I’m particularly scrupulous about chemical additives, but because I’m garden lazy and I practice tough love gardening. If the plant can’t make it on its own, then it doesn’t belong in my garden.
The rest of the tools and equipment that I needed were, a microplane zester (more about that shortly), a large bowl, and a 4 or 5 liter glass jar with a (more or less) air tight lid.
The base for limoncello is vodka. Cheap vodka. Supposedly, it’s even better if you can get Everclear because of the higher alcohol conternt, but that’s not legal in California, so I settled for vodka.* (See note at the bottom of this post).
Limoncello is a wonderful lemon flavored liqueur that Andrew and I first tasted in Buenos Aires. At the end of a fine Italian meal at a restaurant named Guido’s, Guido himself came around with a bottle of this yellow drink in an unlabeled bottle, and poured each of us a shot glass full. It was sweet, but not too sweet, and very potent. We both liked it. I had read an article about making it some time before in the SacBee, so when we got home I looked up some different recipes and found one that I liked. I made a first batch, and when it was done it was a hit, convincing even Sarah that it was delicious. Having made it and drunk some, and since our lemons are in full production right now, I decided to start another batch and document the process.
I started with 30 lemons off our tree. Since they were fresh from the tree, there was no wax to consider, but lemons sold in grocery stores are coated with wax, and it needs to be scrubbed off in warm water if you are going to use commercially grown lemons. Also, there are no chemical fertilizers in my lemon tree. Not because I’m particularly scrupulous about chemical additives, but because I’m garden lazy and I practice tough love gardening. If the plant can’t make it on its own, then it doesn’t belong in my garden.
The rest of the tools and equipment that I needed were, a microplane zester (more about that shortly), a large bowl, and a 4 or 5 liter glass jar with a (more or less) air tight lid.
The base for limoncello is vodka. Cheap vodka. Supposedly, it’s even better if you can get Everclear because of the higher alcohol conternt, but that’s not legal in California, so I settled for vodka.* (See note at the bottom of this post).
Once you have washed the dirt off the lemons, it’s time to reduce them to lemon zest. Lemon zest (or any citrus zest) is the outer layer of the skin, with none of the white pith attached. You need to avoid including the white part as it will apparently turn the mix quite bitter. Using a regular zester (the first time) was a royal pain in the ass, and nearly gave me carpal tunnel by the time I finished 30 lemons. The regular zester is not particularly sharp and is certainly not designed for high volume zest production. It was very hard to keep from getting the white part included with the peel. A sharp knife is another option. A very dangerous option.
This time I used a micro plane grater/zester that I got at Williams Sonoma and it made the whole process very easy and relatively quick. There was absolutely no white pith, only nice fresh, lemon oily zest. I did the grating over a large mixing bowl so that I could catch all the shavings without any mess.
Once I had all the lemons denuded and zestless, I put all the shavings into my glass jar and poured in 1.75 liters of cheap vodka. The only reason for 1.75 was that is how much there is in one of the handle jugs that you get at Costco or Sam’s Club these days. One recipe calls for two 750 ml bottles of vodka or one vodka and one Everclear, which would be 1.5 liters, but I think the extra is just fine.
Phase One ends with putting the vodka in the jar with the zest and putting the jar in my office closet for the next month or so. About every 10 days I will stir the pot, just to keep the vodka and the peels in the most possible contact. I’m not convinced this is actually necessary, but it makes it feel like you’re doing something.
After about a month, Phase Two commences. At this point you make a simple syrup of four cups water and three cups sugar (more or less sugar to taste depending on the sweetness you want in the final product). Heat the water then pour in the sugar to dissolve it. Let the mixture cool, then pour it in with the vodka for another month. Stir occasionally.
At the end of month two, you are ready to bottle the mixture. Supposedly the longer you leave the zest and the vodka together, the more lemon flavor you will get. I doubt that more than 2 months total will give you a much better result. The first batch I made was in the jar for about a month, and it tastes just fine.
Strain the mixture through several layers of cheesecloth to make sure that all the lemon peel is removed from the final product. Wring out the peel to get the maximum amount of amalgamated oil and vodka into your batch. Then bottle. Yield is about 2.5 liters.
You can collect bottles during the course of your daily drinking, or you can buy them. Cost Plus didn’t have a very good selection of swingtop closure bottles of less than a liter, so we ended up drinking small bottles of wine and recycling those to use as gifts (full of limoncello of course, I wouldn't give most people an empty wine bottle as a gift). There is a website, www.specialtybottles.com that seems to have a good selection of clear glass swingtop bottles at reasonable prices.
I also created my own label, and included directions on what to do with limoncello. It makes a very nice homemade gift at any time.
Store it in the fridge or the freezer and serve it ice cold. Add it to ice tea or lemonade. Pour it over vanilla ice cream. Serve it with lemon bread. The possible variations are limitless.
Next, I’m going to try it with oranges. My neighbor’s tree needs pruning.
*Production Note 1/6/09. Everclear is available in California, but it's 151 Proof, not 200 like true Everclear. My current basic recipe is as follows. This makes a very tasty and very potent liqueur:
- 1.75 liters Vodka
- .75 liters Everclear
- 6 cups water (there is enough alcohol in this mix that you can cut it with more water if you want a slightly less potent brew - I like it just the way it is)
- 4.5 cups sugar (more or less to taste)
- Zest from about 30 clean wax free lemons
- Yield is about 4 liters Limoncello
Abondanza!
George Stuart Nixon II 1916-2007
Dad wore a lot of hats, and he presented himself to different people in many different ways. He had been a warrior, a historian, a newspaper man, a club man, a self made man, a friend to a wide ranging, always fascinating group of characters, and even a few scoundrels. His obituary couldn’t cover half of what he accomplished in his life. But as I heard from many of his friends after the news of his death appeared, a common theme was how people had loved to listen to him tell his stories. I think the way that I will remember him best is as a story teller.
He started telling stories as a child. In elementary school he wrote and illustrated a complete history of an imagined country called Pozzia. In middle school he and a friend took turns writing and illustrating a comic strip chronicling the impossible and blood thirsty, but always well mannered, struggles of Hercule Poirot, (the good guy) and his arch enemy Aloysious O’Hare. Their hilarious and hair raising exploits kept my brothers and me in awe as we poured over them. There’s not much in today’s graphic novels that can beat this.
Dad was an energetic storyteller. There were always strange noises and theatrics and bursts of absurd songs in English or French or what he claimed was Russian. At Halloween he would put a lighted jack o lantern on the table and captivate us with the tale of the Brom Bones and the Headless Horseman. Sometimes the stories ended with a punch line. My kids almost fell out of their seats at the movies when they heard the punch line to one of his stories about “the lesser of two weevils” repeated by Russell Crowe in Master and Commander.
On Sunday mornings as a kid I remember all of us climbing onto their bed and listening to the story of Peter Rabbit and Mr. MacGregor’s garden. The moral of the story was twofold: 1. Take responsibility and follow the rules or be prepared to face the consequences. 2. If you were lucky enough to escape, count your blessings and learn from your mistakes. As we grew older we didn’t hear these stories for awhile -- until he became a grandfather. But then there was one difference. For his grandsons he did Peter Rabbit in French and added some French songs about the girls in Tahiti. My French isn’t good enough to tell if there was still a moral to that story.
There were lots stories of San Francisco in the twenties and thirties. He lived a lot of history, and he knew a lot of the people that made the history of his era. He told about speakeasies and waterfront strikes and his grandfather’s cook who boiled the funny papers to make coloring for ice cream.
He had studied California history. Whenever we traveled, which was often, he would show us points of interest and give us a little set piece that went with it. Black Bart used to hide behind that rock to stop the stage coaches. There was the ranch where his friends the Howards trained (and eventually buried) the famous racehorse Seabiscuit. The railroad workers called that cliff Cape Horn because it was so dangerous. They would lower Chinese laborers on ropes from it so they could blast rock to build the transcontinental railroad.
The most famous and enduring story of all was about how his grandfather had been held up and locked in his own bank vault by Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid. The Wild Bunch later sent a group portrait as a sort of twisted thank you note.
By adolesence we knew where the stories would start and we could have told them ourselves, but we would roll our eyes and listen again. And new sets of ears would always come along and find the stories fresh and interesting. Now I do the same thing myself, and my kids groan when they hear them at this point. They too can tell the stories themselves. And I think that is part of the point.
Dad didn’t talk much about World War II to his kids, except for some of the more light hearted non-combat events. We heard a lot about Australia and the smokes and the Sheilas, but not very much about Guadalcanal.
Dad’s ability to tell an interesting story made him a natural newspaperman, and he accumulated a lot of stories about the seamier side of life that were fascinating to hear late at night on a camp out. As a PR man, and a travel writer, he was able to make his living telling stories, and he could always find the right story to keep a conversation moving along.
He knew fascinating people, some of whom we met, some who we only knew by stories. We heard stories about people escaping Russia after the revolution in incredible ways, French resistance fighters who had helped our own relatives, people who would grow up to rule countries, people who had tremendous influence in the arts, literature, sports, politics.
He loved to hold court at the dinner table, and was always at his best when he was surrounded with friends, drinking a little wine and carrying on a lively conversation. For our teenage friends to be considered worthy friends, they had to be able to hold their own in the conversation. He treated them as regular people, drawing them out, never talking down, listening to what they had to say, and treating their remarks with respect, and getting some unexpected results. There were not many homes then where the dinner table conversations were as lively as they could be when Dad was holding forth. There are even less today.
He used to tell a lot of stories about how he met and courted my mother, but my favorite went like this. “In 1946 she met the dashing Marine Corps Captain, Stuart Nixon, at a San Francisco Opera Company performance of Boris Gudonov. ‘I was dazzled’ he said. ‘She was a beautiful woman, she looked like a goddess to me. Four months later we were married.’”
At the end there were not very many stories, but there were still some. In one of my last visits to him he was watching the PBS series on World War II, chronicling the battle of Pelilu where he had fought. It was an effort for him, but he couldn’t help adding his own color commentary based on his own experience.
There is a lot I will miss about my Dad, but mostly I will miss his stories. They were by turns purposeful, instructive, mind expanding, entertaining, romantic and funny. Just like him.
He started telling stories as a child. In elementary school he wrote and illustrated a complete history of an imagined country called Pozzia. In middle school he and a friend took turns writing and illustrating a comic strip chronicling the impossible and blood thirsty, but always well mannered, struggles of Hercule Poirot, (the good guy) and his arch enemy Aloysious O’Hare. Their hilarious and hair raising exploits kept my brothers and me in awe as we poured over them. There’s not much in today’s graphic novels that can beat this.
Dad was an energetic storyteller. There were always strange noises and theatrics and bursts of absurd songs in English or French or what he claimed was Russian. At Halloween he would put a lighted jack o lantern on the table and captivate us with the tale of the Brom Bones and the Headless Horseman. Sometimes the stories ended with a punch line. My kids almost fell out of their seats at the movies when they heard the punch line to one of his stories about “the lesser of two weevils” repeated by Russell Crowe in Master and Commander.
On Sunday mornings as a kid I remember all of us climbing onto their bed and listening to the story of Peter Rabbit and Mr. MacGregor’s garden. The moral of the story was twofold: 1. Take responsibility and follow the rules or be prepared to face the consequences. 2. If you were lucky enough to escape, count your blessings and learn from your mistakes. As we grew older we didn’t hear these stories for awhile -- until he became a grandfather. But then there was one difference. For his grandsons he did Peter Rabbit in French and added some French songs about the girls in Tahiti. My French isn’t good enough to tell if there was still a moral to that story.
There were lots stories of San Francisco in the twenties and thirties. He lived a lot of history, and he knew a lot of the people that made the history of his era. He told about speakeasies and waterfront strikes and his grandfather’s cook who boiled the funny papers to make coloring for ice cream.
He had studied California history. Whenever we traveled, which was often, he would show us points of interest and give us a little set piece that went with it. Black Bart used to hide behind that rock to stop the stage coaches. There was the ranch where his friends the Howards trained (and eventually buried) the famous racehorse Seabiscuit. The railroad workers called that cliff Cape Horn because it was so dangerous. They would lower Chinese laborers on ropes from it so they could blast rock to build the transcontinental railroad.
The most famous and enduring story of all was about how his grandfather had been held up and locked in his own bank vault by Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid. The Wild Bunch later sent a group portrait as a sort of twisted thank you note.
By adolesence we knew where the stories would start and we could have told them ourselves, but we would roll our eyes and listen again. And new sets of ears would always come along and find the stories fresh and interesting. Now I do the same thing myself, and my kids groan when they hear them at this point. They too can tell the stories themselves. And I think that is part of the point.
Dad didn’t talk much about World War II to his kids, except for some of the more light hearted non-combat events. We heard a lot about Australia and the smokes and the Sheilas, but not very much about Guadalcanal.
Dad’s ability to tell an interesting story made him a natural newspaperman, and he accumulated a lot of stories about the seamier side of life that were fascinating to hear late at night on a camp out. As a PR man, and a travel writer, he was able to make his living telling stories, and he could always find the right story to keep a conversation moving along.
He knew fascinating people, some of whom we met, some who we only knew by stories. We heard stories about people escaping Russia after the revolution in incredible ways, French resistance fighters who had helped our own relatives, people who would grow up to rule countries, people who had tremendous influence in the arts, literature, sports, politics.
He loved to hold court at the dinner table, and was always at his best when he was surrounded with friends, drinking a little wine and carrying on a lively conversation. For our teenage friends to be considered worthy friends, they had to be able to hold their own in the conversation. He treated them as regular people, drawing them out, never talking down, listening to what they had to say, and treating their remarks with respect, and getting some unexpected results. There were not many homes then where the dinner table conversations were as lively as they could be when Dad was holding forth. There are even less today.
He used to tell a lot of stories about how he met and courted my mother, but my favorite went like this. “In 1946 she met the dashing Marine Corps Captain, Stuart Nixon, at a San Francisco Opera Company performance of Boris Gudonov. ‘I was dazzled’ he said. ‘She was a beautiful woman, she looked like a goddess to me. Four months later we were married.’”
At the end there were not very many stories, but there were still some. In one of my last visits to him he was watching the PBS series on World War II, chronicling the battle of Pelilu where he had fought. It was an effort for him, but he couldn’t help adding his own color commentary based on his own experience.
There is a lot I will miss about my Dad, but mostly I will miss his stories. They were by turns purposeful, instructive, mind expanding, entertaining, romantic and funny. Just like him.
The Holiday Scene
(Note: This post was orginally written in October 2007. It was only recently found in the bottom of my trunk and has been dusted off to help Thistlewood Post get under way.)
It’s the beginning of October and the Holiday Gal is at it again. Every flat surface in the house is covered with Halloween decorations looking for a place to stay for the season. We can’t currently use the dining room table, and last night for dinner we had to clear spaces at the counter so we could have a place to sit and eat.
One of Sarah’s more endearing and enduring traits is her love of holiday decorating and everything associated with holidays. She has been doing this ever since I’ve known her, and I don’t expect it will ever stop. Her family didn’t celebrate holidays in any big way, and I think this must be a reaction to her childhood. When we lived in Ohio, Sarah took over the walk-in closet in the upstairs hallway, and we christened it the Holiday Closet. Neighbors used to come by and check it out as a neighborhood novelty. Now we have a shed, another closet and the old armoire from Truckee with Aunt Mickey’s House Rules still tacked to the door, reminding everyone to write down their phone usage and not to use Tide because it’s bad for the septic tank.
Halloween signals the beginning of the Holiday Decorating Season, which will last now through Easter. Each holiday has a vast, vaster or half-vast collection of decorations that goes with it. Halloween is second only to Christmas in volume of available decorations. Next comes Thanksgiving, with some of the decorations carried over from Halloween (the recent phenomenon of referring to both Halloween and Thanksgiving as “Harvest” means that many of the base decorations can be shared, similar to the way that Toyota shares the chassis of a Camry with the Highlander). Pilgrims will replace Ghosts, and the Jack’o’Lantern faces on light covers will be turned around to the plain pumpkin side.
This year we are having a major Halloween tree. In past years we have had a small Halloween tree, but this year we have pulled out the regular Christmas tree (the small one, not the large one) and Sarah has decorated it with Halloween ornaments, orange garland, and Halloween lights. It will sit in the cart that we use to elevate the Christmas tree, and the cart will be filled with harvest-y themed objects including mini hay bales (bought at Michaels and hauled home in the bed of my pickup truck) and artificial pumpkins from China. This is in lieu of the Santas and toys that usually occupy the space at the base of the tree.
The Friday after Thanksgiving begins the Christmas decorating process, although for some years we used to wait until after Stephen’s December birthday to begin this in earnest. Even in our simplified lives, this is always the most elaborate decorating event that we do. I put up the outside lights, and we bring in the trees for the living room and the dining room from their summer quarters in the Cow Shed. Thanksgiving/Harvest decorations get put away, and the house is once again in a turmoil of decorations all over the place for a week or so.
Over the years the nature and sophistication of the trees has evolved from a sort of handcrafted country style, nothing shiny or glittery, to a more elegant style. One tree is decorated exclusively with representations of Santa Claus. The other tree is more traditional in the types of ornaments, and displays a number of ornaments that we have accumulated over the years, including some that the kids made in grade school before the Liberals Declared War On Christmas.
The mantelpiece always displays the Santa figures that Sarah has collected over the years. Some of them are probably valuable, some of them were just inexpensive geegaws that we picked up here and there, but taken as a whole, the sheer volume and variety makes the collection impressive. Each piece also comes with a back story on where it came from and how we came by it. There is a real bridge to the history of our family in this grouping.
When we got married, Sarah and I were definitely not the type to register for china, crystal and silver (although we have extensive collections of silver flatware inherited from legions of deceased relatives on both sides). Consequently, the only formal china we own is a set of Spode Christmas Tree that we begin to use on the Friday after Thanksgiving. During the Holiday Season I can be severely chastised if I forget to use the Spode instead of our usual paper plates.
There is also an extensive collection of Department 56 lighted houses. Although we don’t get all of them out these days, in years past we would build an elaborate Snow Village with the houses, sometimes running a model train through it, and scattering shredded milk jug shavings all over the place to simulate snow. Some years it was quite captivating, sort of our own Christmas window display à la Gumps or the City of Paris.
After Christmas most of the decorations will come down, with the exception of snowmen, and probably a few small trees. The house feels bare after Christmas. Some years we have had a Mardi Gras tree, but not lately. Minimal decoration will carry until us to Valentines, when the white feather tree will be decorated with glass hearts and red beads, and the mantelpiece will have an assortment of Valentine themed items.
After Valentines we may have a modest amount of decorating for St. Patrick’s Day, and even a little bit around President’s Day (not much, maybe a few stars and stripes, but Uncle Sam is already a theme around here anyway, so it doesn’t really stand out).
The final big decorating push will come for Easter. An Easter tree, Easter eggs, bunnies, lots of candy, flags of course. There are flags for all occasions. Once Easter is done, the house goes back to normal with the exception of birthdays and of course, the 4th of July.
Fourth of July stands out as the only major decorating event between Easter and Halloween. Plenty of Uncle Sam icons and American flags cover the mantle, bunting sometimes goes over the front door, and Mary Emmerling books come out and get scattered around the house. My brother John once famously remarked that it looked like Uncle Sam had barfed all over the mantelpiece. The kids thought that was hilarious and have never let a holiday go by since without paying homage to their uncle's remark.
It’s the beginning of October and the Holiday Gal is at it again. Every flat surface in the house is covered with Halloween decorations looking for a place to stay for the season. We can’t currently use the dining room table, and last night for dinner we had to clear spaces at the counter so we could have a place to sit and eat.
One of Sarah’s more endearing and enduring traits is her love of holiday decorating and everything associated with holidays. She has been doing this ever since I’ve known her, and I don’t expect it will ever stop. Her family didn’t celebrate holidays in any big way, and I think this must be a reaction to her childhood. When we lived in Ohio, Sarah took over the walk-in closet in the upstairs hallway, and we christened it the Holiday Closet. Neighbors used to come by and check it out as a neighborhood novelty. Now we have a shed, another closet and the old armoire from Truckee with Aunt Mickey’s House Rules still tacked to the door, reminding everyone to write down their phone usage and not to use Tide because it’s bad for the septic tank.
Halloween signals the beginning of the Holiday Decorating Season, which will last now through Easter. Each holiday has a vast, vaster or half-vast collection of decorations that goes with it. Halloween is second only to Christmas in volume of available decorations. Next comes Thanksgiving, with some of the decorations carried over from Halloween (the recent phenomenon of referring to both Halloween and Thanksgiving as “Harvest” means that many of the base decorations can be shared, similar to the way that Toyota shares the chassis of a Camry with the Highlander). Pilgrims will replace Ghosts, and the Jack’o’Lantern faces on light covers will be turned around to the plain pumpkin side.
This year we are having a major Halloween tree. In past years we have had a small Halloween tree, but this year we have pulled out the regular Christmas tree (the small one, not the large one) and Sarah has decorated it with Halloween ornaments, orange garland, and Halloween lights. It will sit in the cart that we use to elevate the Christmas tree, and the cart will be filled with harvest-y themed objects including mini hay bales (bought at Michaels and hauled home in the bed of my pickup truck) and artificial pumpkins from China. This is in lieu of the Santas and toys that usually occupy the space at the base of the tree.The Friday after Thanksgiving begins the Christmas decorating process, although for some years we used to wait until after Stephen’s December birthday to begin this in earnest. Even in our simplified lives, this is always the most elaborate decorating event that we do. I put up the outside lights, and we bring in the trees for the living room and the dining room from their summer quarters in the Cow Shed. Thanksgiving/Harvest decorations get put away, and the house is once again in a turmoil of decorations all over the place for a week or so.
Over the years the nature and sophistication of the trees has evolved from a sort of handcrafted country style, nothing shiny or glittery, to a more elegant style. One tree is decorated exclusively with representations of Santa Claus. The other tree is more traditional in the types of ornaments, and displays a number of ornaments that we have accumulated over the years, including some that the kids made in grade school before the Liberals Declared War On Christmas.
The mantelpiece always displays the Santa figures that Sarah has collected over the years. Some of them are probably valuable, some of them were just inexpensive geegaws that we picked up here and there, but taken as a whole, the sheer volume and variety makes the collection impressive. Each piece also comes with a back story on where it came from and how we came by it. There is a real bridge to the history of our family in this grouping.
When we got married, Sarah and I were definitely not the type to register for china, crystal and silver (although we have extensive collections of silver flatware inherited from legions of deceased relatives on both sides). Consequently, the only formal china we own is a set of Spode Christmas Tree that we begin to use on the Friday after Thanksgiving. During the Holiday Season I can be severely chastised if I forget to use the Spode instead of our usual paper plates.
There is also an extensive collection of Department 56 lighted houses. Although we don’t get all of them out these days, in years past we would build an elaborate Snow Village with the houses, sometimes running a model train through it, and scattering shredded milk jug shavings all over the place to simulate snow. Some years it was quite captivating, sort of our own Christmas window display à la Gumps or the City of Paris.
After Christmas most of the decorations will come down, with the exception of snowmen, and probably a few small trees. The house feels bare after Christmas. Some years we have had a Mardi Gras tree, but not lately. Minimal decoration will carry until us to Valentines, when the white feather tree will be decorated with glass hearts and red beads, and the mantelpiece will have an assortment of Valentine themed items.
After Valentines we may have a modest amount of decorating for St. Patrick’s Day, and even a little bit around President’s Day (not much, maybe a few stars and stripes, but Uncle Sam is already a theme around here anyway, so it doesn’t really stand out).
The final big decorating push will come for Easter. An Easter tree, Easter eggs, bunnies, lots of candy, flags of course. There are flags for all occasions. Once Easter is done, the house goes back to normal with the exception of birthdays and of course, the 4th of July.
Fourth of July stands out as the only major decorating event between Easter and Halloween. Plenty of Uncle Sam icons and American flags cover the mantle, bunting sometimes goes over the front door, and Mary Emmerling books come out and get scattered around the house. My brother John once famously remarked that it looked like Uncle Sam had barfed all over the mantelpiece. The kids thought that was hilarious and have never let a holiday go by since without paying homage to their uncle's remark.
I give Sarah a lot of grief sometimes for all this decorating, and the kids tend to be a bit cynical about it as well. But if there were ever to be a year when it didn't get done, I'm pretty sure there would be some major 'splaining to do.
The worst day fishing is always better than the best day working.
On the ocean, everything is trying to kill something else to eat it.
We are in Puerto Rico over the weekend for work last week and next, so we spent today following around birds who were hunting smaller fish, to eat them. The smaller fish were escaping from larger fish, who were trying to eat them. We were trying to catch the larger fish and eat them. And of course, the ocean, given half a chance, would kill us, and we would get eaten by something. We caught a barracuda and a yellowfin tuna. The barracuda, who ate our (fake) bait, got tossed back because they eat so much nasty crap that they accumulate poisons and are not usually safe for us to eat. We ate the tuna.
The day started early with a trip to Fajardo. Alberto picked Ed and me up and drove us out, despite a very apparent hangover. We got to the Marina a little before 8 am and met up with Ibrahim , aka Mustapha or Musta. Musta is a very talkative sales-y kind of guy whose father is from Palestine and whose mother is Puerto Rican. He speaks good English and extremely rapid Spanish and was also the guy who found the boat for us and arranged the trip. He was cleaning his own boat when we got there.
We met up with the boat, captained by Hochee, assisted by Cochee, who owns his own large charter boat, as well as being enrolled in Law School and who knows what else. We pulled out from the dock about 9 and headed out about seven miles off shore to where the shelf drops off abruptly and the water is about 1000 feet deep and sapphire blue.
Once we reached a likely spot the boat slowed and Cochee started to set up the rods with their bait, which looks like rubber squids. Once the lures are attached, the lines are dropped over and attached to the lines of the tuna tower with a large rubber band. When a fish takes the lure, the rubber band gives way, and the line is paid out, but until then, the attachment keeps the lines from crossing too much. Once the lines are set up, we begin to troll at about 5-10 miles per hour on the open sea.
Diesel fumes waft across the area, mixing with the smell from Cochee’s cigarette, bringing a powerful combination of aromas to bear in a very small environment that keeps moving around in unpredictable ways. The first beers of the morning come out. I have a Diet Pepsi. Ed is like a little kid, he is so excited. He has wanted to do this for quite a while, and finally it’s happening for him. We keep going around in a zigzag pattern, watching for birds, flying fish and other telltales. This part gets pretty boring pretty fast. You can only look at the scenery for so long, especially when it’s hard to stand up and move around.
After about two hours, a fish takes a lure, and a flurry of activity begins. Cochee brings the rod over to Ed, who had been sitting in the chair, and then he begins to reel in the rest of the rods that might cross over the active line. Ed begins a rhythmic pumping of the rod, pulling the rod up then reeling in as he drops the rod. This continues for a while until he has landed a barracuda, which Cochee quickly releases back into the ocean once I have taken a picture of Ed and the fish.
After the barracuda goes back home, we keep rolling around in the water with the sun beating down and the diesel fumes pumping out into the hot humid air. I eat a sandwich to settle my stomach, have a beer and we keep trolling.
Eventually I curl up on the bench and take a nap, probably for about an hour. All of a sudden the nap is interrupted when the reel starts making a ratcheting whine and the line begins to pay out quickly. We have another fish, and it’s my turn in the chair. The rod is heavy, and the rhythm of reeling in is difficult. The line goes out another 150 yards or more as the fish dives. I decide that if the fish is going to come over the transom it will be done by Ed, so I relinquish the rod and after about twenty minutes he brings it in. Chochee gaffs it and it’s in the boat. A yellowfin tuna, probably about twenty or twenty five pounds. Lots of pictures and more beer.
We go back to trolling for a while, and then around 2:00 Hochee packs it in and we head back to shore (I’m secretly glad about this decision). We stop along the way to butcher the fish and put the meat into plastic bags. This is prime sushi.
Musta says, why don’t we all go over to his place and cook the fish, so we do. His girlfriend doesn’t kill him for bringing a bunch of dirty fishermen home. The fish is delicious.
We are in Puerto Rico over the weekend for work last week and next, so we spent today following around birds who were hunting smaller fish, to eat them. The smaller fish were escaping from larger fish, who were trying to eat them. We were trying to catch the larger fish and eat them. And of course, the ocean, given half a chance, would kill us, and we would get eaten by something. We caught a barracuda and a yellowfin tuna. The barracuda, who ate our (fake) bait, got tossed back because they eat so much nasty crap that they accumulate poisons and are not usually safe for us to eat. We ate the tuna.
The day started early with a trip to Fajardo. Alberto picked Ed and me up and drove us out, despite a very apparent hangover. We got to the Marina a little before 8 am and met up with Ibrahim , aka Mustapha or Musta. Musta is a very talkative sales-y kind of guy whose father is from Palestine and whose mother is Puerto Rican. He speaks good English and extremely rapid Spanish and was also the guy who found the boat for us and arranged the trip. He was cleaning his own boat when we got there.
We met up with the boat, captained by Hochee, assisted by Cochee, who owns his own large charter boat, as well as being enrolled in Law School and who knows what else. We pulled out from the dock about 9 and headed out about seven miles off shore to where the shelf drops off abruptly and the water is about 1000 feet deep and sapphire blue.
Once we reached a likely spot the boat slowed and Cochee started to set up the rods with their bait, which looks like rubber squids. Once the lures are attached, the lines are dropped over and attached to the lines of the tuna tower with a large rubber band. When a fish takes the lure, the rubber band gives way, and the line is paid out, but until then, the attachment keeps the lines from crossing too much. Once the lines are set up, we begin to troll at about 5-10 miles per hour on the open sea.
Diesel fumes waft across the area, mixing with the smell from Cochee’s cigarette, bringing a powerful combination of aromas to bear in a very small environment that keeps moving around in unpredictable ways. The first beers of the morning come out. I have a Diet Pepsi. Ed is like a little kid, he is so excited. He has wanted to do this for quite a while, and finally it’s happening for him. We keep going around in a zigzag pattern, watching for birds, flying fish and other telltales. This part gets pretty boring pretty fast. You can only look at the scenery for so long, especially when it’s hard to stand up and move around.
After about two hours, a fish takes a lure, and a flurry of activity begins. Cochee brings the rod over to Ed, who had been sitting in the chair, and then he begins to reel in the rest of the rods that might cross over the active line. Ed begins a rhythmic pumping of the rod, pulling the rod up then reeling in as he drops the rod. This continues for a while until he has landed a barracuda, which Cochee quickly releases back into the ocean once I have taken a picture of Ed and the fish.
After the barracuda goes back home, we keep rolling around in the water with the sun beating down and the diesel fumes pumping out into the hot humid air. I eat a sandwich to settle my stomach, have a beer and we keep trolling.
Eventually I curl up on the bench and take a nap, probably for about an hour. All of a sudden the nap is interrupted when the reel starts making a ratcheting whine and the line begins to pay out quickly. We have another fish, and it’s my turn in the chair. The rod is heavy, and the rhythm of reeling in is difficult. The line goes out another 150 yards or more as the fish dives. I decide that if the fish is going to come over the transom it will be done by Ed, so I relinquish the rod and after about twenty minutes he brings it in. Chochee gaffs it and it’s in the boat. A yellowfin tuna, probably about twenty or twenty five pounds. Lots of pictures and more beer.
We go back to trolling for a while, and then around 2:00 Hochee packs it in and we head back to shore (I’m secretly glad about this decision). We stop along the way to butcher the fish and put the meat into plastic bags. This is prime sushi.
Musta says, why don’t we all go over to his place and cook the fish, so we do. His girlfriend doesn’t kill him for bringing a bunch of dirty fishermen home. The fish is delicious.
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