On August 24th at 3:20am, an earthquake struck Napa, California. Cabinet doors flew open. Bottles and glasses tumbled onto tile floors. Containers of leftovers jumped from refrigerator shelves onto floors. Outdoor sculptures walked. Bricks fell from a chimney injuring a sleeping boy.
The currency of injury in a disaster is commonly calculated in dollars, that is, millions of dollars. The soft calculation of human vulnerability eludes quantification.
I'm currently in Napa, fourteen days post-earthquake, in my friends' great room. Their broken glass and sticky food mess is now a tale for dinner conversations. The gas fireplace in the corner, although twenty inches from its proper perch, looks solid, the only evidence of its displacement a gouged hickory floor. Fruit trees, vineyards, and soft hills stretch northward and disappear.
We feel safe, on solid ground. We hike. Our conversations weave through travel tales, recipes, grandchildren antics. Yet, the effects of the earthquake show in the Napa Register feature articles, the portable water tank in the driveway, and a repairman's arrival -- like flies at the table.
I hate to say it, or even think it, but an earthquake event does reveal how annoying are flies at a picnic table, how frustrating are cancelled flights, and how worrisome are droughts, not to mention the awful results of betrayals and vitriolic outbursts out of the mouths of people with whom we share space -- on airplanes, in grocery lines, at family tables.
"I just can't go there," says a favorite friend. Exactly. Why walk through a chasm when you can walk along a clear path? "What's done is done," says my brother. "I stick to now."
Forward, my friends. Let's go forward, I say.
"If you fall on your face, you're still moving forward." -- Victor Kiam.
Wednesday, September 10, 2014
Monday, August 11, 2014
Back to School
When I was a child and summertime shifted to school time, I rebelled mightily. My mother would do everything but pour ice water on me to raise me from my bed. I fussed about my clothes. I didn't like this color or that sock. My shoes were too clunky. I didn't need a jacket. I dawdled at breakfast. I drug my feet right to the front door and down the sidewalk, across Hillside Drive, down the steps and past the estate along the shaded road leading to Hoover Elementary School.
My mother sent me out the door with a kiss and good wishes for the day, closed the door, prayed I would actually arrive at school, and waited for the principal's phone call. In those days we children walked to neighborhood schools. No one worried about our being abducted. We children all converged onto one safe road that led past an estate whose grounds looked something like Calloway Gardens.
The estate's grounds captivated me. I knew every hidden entrance, every hole in the fence, every break in the shrubbery. I allowed the estate gardens to abduct me on warm, sunny mornings. It was easy to succumb and slip away from my schoolmates and brothers. I'd sit down to tie my shoe or hang back while the others walked on ahead. Like Peter Rabbit I'd slip through shrubbery or squeeze through a gate to explore winding garden paths through boxwood mazes and perennial beds until the gardener caught me at the koi pond.
The gardener was a quiet Japanese man who, in broken English, always asked me why I wasn't in school. I'd usually lie and say school was closed or school was opening later. Who knows what went on in the background. The mistress of the estate surely played a role. Perhaps she was the one who called Mr. Lyons, the principal, each time.
Mr. Lyons would eventually appear and walk me to school and my classroom. On my worst day-dreamy days, I'd do nothing but draw doodles all over my papers, write poems, or plot my next escape. I was eight years old and long term consequences about being unprepared for the world of work meant nothing to me. I was already reading Mother's books and Daddy's newspapers. Worksheets and beginner books bored me.
My sweet, cuddly second grade teacher once left her notebook on her desk. I saw her notes on me. I was apparently socially awkward, withdrawn, and recalcitrant. I preferred painting endlessly at the classroom easel and writing limericks. She had difficulty getting me to focus. I stared out the window. I wanted to skip recess. I passed all my tests and scored high on the California Achievement tests but wasted time in class.
My witchy, anxious-ridden third grade teacher slapped me for refusing to read aloud "Run, Spot, run. Stop, Spot, stop." books. This stinging event happened in front of my reading circle group. I ran home and refused to ever return to school, ever again!
The slapping must have been the final straw for everyone. Mother put me in her Chevy and drove us to school where I sat in a reception area while she talked to Mr. Lyons in his office. Thereafter, I attended third grade at Hoover Elementary as Mr. Lyon's special student in his office at my very own special desk.
Sometimes I still dawdled, but not so much. Sometimes I slipped into the estate garden but only to walk a purposeful detour along its more interesting paths to school. I didn't want to be late and I didn't want to disappoint Mr. Lyons.
My mother sent me out the door with a kiss and good wishes for the day, closed the door, prayed I would actually arrive at school, and waited for the principal's phone call. In those days we children walked to neighborhood schools. No one worried about our being abducted. We children all converged onto one safe road that led past an estate whose grounds looked something like Calloway Gardens.
The estate's grounds captivated me. I knew every hidden entrance, every hole in the fence, every break in the shrubbery. I allowed the estate gardens to abduct me on warm, sunny mornings. It was easy to succumb and slip away from my schoolmates and brothers. I'd sit down to tie my shoe or hang back while the others walked on ahead. Like Peter Rabbit I'd slip through shrubbery or squeeze through a gate to explore winding garden paths through boxwood mazes and perennial beds until the gardener caught me at the koi pond.
The gardener was a quiet Japanese man who, in broken English, always asked me why I wasn't in school. I'd usually lie and say school was closed or school was opening later. Who knows what went on in the background. The mistress of the estate surely played a role. Perhaps she was the one who called Mr. Lyons, the principal, each time.
Mr. Lyons would eventually appear and walk me to school and my classroom. On my worst day-dreamy days, I'd do nothing but draw doodles all over my papers, write poems, or plot my next escape. I was eight years old and long term consequences about being unprepared for the world of work meant nothing to me. I was already reading Mother's books and Daddy's newspapers. Worksheets and beginner books bored me.
My sweet, cuddly second grade teacher once left her notebook on her desk. I saw her notes on me. I was apparently socially awkward, withdrawn, and recalcitrant. I preferred painting endlessly at the classroom easel and writing limericks. She had difficulty getting me to focus. I stared out the window. I wanted to skip recess. I passed all my tests and scored high on the California Achievement tests but wasted time in class.
My witchy, anxious-ridden third grade teacher slapped me for refusing to read aloud "Run, Spot, run. Stop, Spot, stop." books. This stinging event happened in front of my reading circle group. I ran home and refused to ever return to school, ever again!
The slapping must have been the final straw for everyone. Mother put me in her Chevy and drove us to school where I sat in a reception area while she talked to Mr. Lyons in his office. Thereafter, I attended third grade at Hoover Elementary as Mr. Lyon's special student in his office at my very own special desk.
Sometimes I still dawdled, but not so much. Sometimes I slipped into the estate garden but only to walk a purposeful detour along its more interesting paths to school. I didn't want to be late and I didn't want to disappoint Mr. Lyons.
Wednesday, July 2, 2014
The Recall Notice
My step-daughter Michelle and I were visiting on the phone in May when she surprised us with this: "We received a recall notice for our van. Guess what? Something is wrong with the park shift lock!"
My head quickly shifted to a scene in our driveway five years ago. Our three-year-old grandson Jacob had climbed into the van behind the driver's wheel and succeeded in releasing the park shift lock. The van rolled forward on the incline while Jacob steered it toward his father and grandfather who were standing next to the greenhouse. Jacob's dad ran toward the van, opened the driver's side door, and mashed down the emergency brake at the last second. Jacob's grandfather, by crab walking sideways and pushing against the van's hood, managed to get out the way just before the van stopped against the edge of the greenhouse.
"Dad, I was driving!" Jacob shouted.
With a catch in his voice Grandfather mumbled, "Once I was run over by a bicycle but never before by a van!"
Dad didn't know whether to be relieved or angry. "Jacob, what were you doing? How did you get your foot on the brake? Are you okay? I told you not to get in the car!"
We tried to sort it out. Jacob didn't appear to be precocious. He was just a little feller with an adventurous spirit. Maybe he stepped on the brake pedal and moved the shift lever. His dad thought perhaps he himself had failed to put the car in park, not that that idea made sense.
Since no one was injured, we breathed sighs of relief, rebuilt the edge of the greenhouse planter, and admonished Jacob for climbing into the car to pretend drive. The incident joined other family lore about mishaps and unsolved mysteries.
Note, we never once wondered if the vehicle had a faulty shift lock. See how trusting we are about auto manufacturers? Since we average 15,000 miles per year in our Toyotas, Acuras, and Hondas, we need to feel safe in them. Safety recalls happen to other people.
But here it is, published in September 2013, the answer to an oddity which could have turned deadly had circumstances shifted slightly: a steeper incline, a locked driver's side door, a crippled grandfather. Five years had passed between our incident and the recall notice. In our denial we had failed to report the incident and thus are a bit chagrined by our naïveté.
________
Toyota Announces Voluntary Recall of Certain Sienna Vehicles
September 26, 2013
TORRANCE, CA September 26, 2013 – Toyota Motor Sales, USA, Inc. today announced that it will conduct a voluntary safety recall involving approximately 615,000 Sienna minivans from Model Years 2004-2005 and 2007-2009 to address problems with the shift lever assembly.
Because of the potential for damage to the shift lock solenoid installed in involved vehicles, there is a possibility that the shift lever could be moved out of the “P” position without the driver depressing the brake pedal. This could result in a vehicle roll-away.
All known owners of the subject vehicles will be notified by first class mail to return their vehicles to a Toyota dealer for replacement of the shift lock solenoid with a new one.
Detailed information is available to customers at www.toyota.com/recall and by calling the Toyota Customer Experience Center at 1-800-331-4331.
Sunday, June 1, 2014
Paths
Robert Frost left us thinking about two paths converging and our taking the less traveled one. I've always wanted to discuss this idea with the poet. One path coverages with another so continuously, finding a less traveled one could be as elusive as containing a cloud.
I've placed a photo at the bottom of the page of a less traveled road. Deer graze along its edges. Ranchers drive Ford 250's from mile section to mile section. Sportsmen hunt in the adjacent fields. Electric poles and barbed wire line the roadway. The road itself has been well groomed, graded and graveled.
Less traveled compared to the highway three miles to the west and less traveled than the street I live on, this road is not silent. I hear my shoes crunching on the roadbed. The "bobwhite" calls of quail and the gobble of a turkey mix with birdsongs. Tall grass rustles in the pastures.
The people who live along this road go to their grandchildren's ball games, care for ailing neighbors, manage flood control, teach school, repair machinery, support their churches, and buy groceries. With every use of this road to town, to the funeral home, to church, to school, go people with plans and concerns.
The people I know along this road have chosen to live here because they grew up nearby, worked elsewhere, and returned to open a B&B on a hill overlooking a small lake. That's why I know them. We stay at their B&B.
This isn't a road in a place I would choose to live. I like city life and its stimulating choices. But I also like retreats where I can feel centered. I like knowing I can catch a plane, rent a car, and drive three hours to be at this quiet but not silent place with its less traveled road, with its deer, quail, and wild turkeys, with its rolling pastures and sweeps of wild flowers.
In the city the wheels in my head barely halt even when I sleep, but in this country place where people are spaced miles apart and the horizon stretches into forever, my mind turns off. I can sit quietly without jumping up to do chores. Here I am not in charge of clean linens, or breakfast, or weeding. Here I don't maintain the lane or manage the fishing dock.
Believe, me. I find God everywhere, not just at quiet retreats. I, however, sometimes need to drop my organized life in order to feel how spiritually intact I really am.
We are on hugging terms with our hosts who are tethered to this place of refuge. "Alice," I said, "thank you for making such a place for us and others. It is work, I know, but it is also a gift."
As for Robert Frost, I want to say, if I were coming out of the woods on a snowy evening, I, driven by curiosity, might also choose the less traveled road, but not always. Sometimes I have had to travel along worn pathways to get to a less traveled one.
I've placed a photo at the bottom of the page of a less traveled road. Deer graze along its edges. Ranchers drive Ford 250's from mile section to mile section. Sportsmen hunt in the adjacent fields. Electric poles and barbed wire line the roadway. The road itself has been well groomed, graded and graveled.
Less traveled compared to the highway three miles to the west and less traveled than the street I live on, this road is not silent. I hear my shoes crunching on the roadbed. The "bobwhite" calls of quail and the gobble of a turkey mix with birdsongs. Tall grass rustles in the pastures.
The people who live along this road go to their grandchildren's ball games, care for ailing neighbors, manage flood control, teach school, repair machinery, support their churches, and buy groceries. With every use of this road to town, to the funeral home, to church, to school, go people with plans and concerns.
The people I know along this road have chosen to live here because they grew up nearby, worked elsewhere, and returned to open a B&B on a hill overlooking a small lake. That's why I know them. We stay at their B&B.
This isn't a road in a place I would choose to live. I like city life and its stimulating choices. But I also like retreats where I can feel centered. I like knowing I can catch a plane, rent a car, and drive three hours to be at this quiet but not silent place with its less traveled road, with its deer, quail, and wild turkeys, with its rolling pastures and sweeps of wild flowers.
In the city the wheels in my head barely halt even when I sleep, but in this country place where people are spaced miles apart and the horizon stretches into forever, my mind turns off. I can sit quietly without jumping up to do chores. Here I am not in charge of clean linens, or breakfast, or weeding. Here I don't maintain the lane or manage the fishing dock.
Believe, me. I find God everywhere, not just at quiet retreats. I, however, sometimes need to drop my organized life in order to feel how spiritually intact I really am.
We are on hugging terms with our hosts who are tethered to this place of refuge. "Alice," I said, "thank you for making such a place for us and others. It is work, I know, but it is also a gift."
As for Robert Frost, I want to say, if I were coming out of the woods on a snowy evening, I, driven by curiosity, might also choose the less traveled road, but not always. Sometimes I have had to travel along worn pathways to get to a less traveled one.
Saturday, May 24, 2014
The Red Zone
I was going along through life on auto-pilot -- grandchild cared for in Atlanta, bills paid, travel plans for the summer lined out, grass mowed, weeds pulled, prayers said -- when my husband called with this:
"Diane, what's going on? We're overdrawn at the bank!"
"Impossible," said I with the confidence of a veteran user of spreadsheets and budgeting.
"Better check because our balance is deep in the red zone."
Indeed, we were overdrawn and incurring daily penalties, $25 a whack for each insufficient fund guaranteed payment. I had no idea why until I returned home and saw that Lowes had double posted a hefty April credit card payment, twice debited from our checking account and eighteen days later credited back. The overdraft penalties had happened within the eighteen day lapse.
To add to the drama, on the day I discovered the cause of "We are WHAT?!" We had our puppy to deliver for boarding before 2pm and a plane to catch at 4:15.
I dropped in at the bank to solve the problem. In my mind, all the bank needed to do was return the $295 in penalties to us since Lowes was responsible, not us. Seemed like arriving at 11AM would be plenty of time to fix all this.
EXCEPT as Tina, an assistant manager of the Campbell Lane branch, explained, "Lowes made the mistake so they need to make this right with you."
Thinking: Hmmm, I'm gonna walk into the customer service desk at Lowes and ask for $295....
"Tina, I'm not so sure this is going to work, my walking into Lowes from the street. Might work if you go with me and explain all this to them."
Tina grinned. "Let me check with my manager. Give me a minute."
I called my husband to alert him. "This may take awhile."
.......
While the managers at the bank rightly concluded the $295 would be Lowes' responsibility, I insisted upon my utter ineptitude and incompetency, not to mention my emotional instability, to the extent that I needed to remain glued to the bank's customer service chair in Tina's office while Tina called the manager at Lowes.
Chad, manager of Lowes, referred Tina to Byron of the credit card service company, who could not see double postings. (We couldn't see them either since they weren't listed on our Lowes credit card statement.) Byron told us to call Chad back and have Chad confer with his local IT department. Only now Chad was unavailable according to J.R.
"J.R., I really need to talk with Chad." A masterful communicator, the even tempered Tina, who had accepted her task with friendly vengeance, finally secured Chad's undivided attention.
The clock had been ticking away during phone calls, audio menu options to match our needs, negotiations around assistant managers, and research about when the two debits occurred, exactly what time (4:46p on May 2) and when the credit was posted (May 20).
I studied my watch and hoped my husband would remember to pack the phone chargers.
Chad wanted us to have the $295, and he would get to bottom of this, but first he had to figure out why a clerk managed to debit our account twice without my knowledge and exactly where did the money go, and why 18 days later the error was credited back to us without the credit card processing company ever being involved.
Tina said she would personally go to Lowes to pick up the money and deposit it once Chad concluded his investigations.
"Go, catch your plane. And have a wonderful time at your grand-daughter's graduation." I felt like Tina was my new BFF and wanted to hug her.
Happily, we made our flight since Denver storms had delayed flights to the Midwest, although we regret the eight planes damaged by hail and the inconvenience to other travelers making connections through Denver.
The next morning Tina called with good news: Jennifer, the Lowes accountant, had called, Could Tina come by for the money?
Thanks to Tina, Chad, and Jennifer, the $295 is now safely in our account and available for spending.
Money does strange things to folks. If it's ours, we want contrarily to keep it and spend it. Money is never ours, although we act as if it is, and we certainly resent and perhaps feel victimized when someone else has the unauthorized use if it.
We say money isn't everything but then act as if it's right up there next to oxygen.
Which reminds me of how airplanes have pressurized cabins and in the case of ... well, the unthinkable, an oxygen mask drops down and you must first attach it to your face before you assist someone else.
Wednesday, April 30, 2014
Oh Where, Oh Where?
My wallet disappeared on Friday, my leather black and red Lodis wallet suggested by a friend on a November shopping spree in 2004, my wallet with the pull out license and credit card insert that fits perfectly into a jean hip pocket, my wallet with its debit card, two credit cards, membership cards, my license, and 18 dollars. AWOL!
I discovered my wallet's absence on Monday morning at 10:30 when, at Kinko's the salesclerk said, "That will be eleven dollars and forty-three cents." A woman fishing into her purse knows what is there; hers is a confident, familiar act, her hand like eyes. My husband would have to dump my bag upside down to find a rock in it. I can find a stray menthol lozenge in a split second.
"Oops!" I said. "Must have left my wallet on my desk. I will be right back." And so it began, the spinning search for the wallet.
Life must go on. One cannot push a pause button to look for a wallet. My day took off without the wallet, sans identification and money. Instead of focusing on the business at hand, my mind slipped into replay mode: Where had I been? I sent texts to friends. Maybe they had seen it.
"Sorry. Haven't seen it."
The wallet's absence sliced through Monday's schedule, serious discussions at a board meeting, companionable conversations with friends, a dinner party, and an evening concert. It was bedtime before I could look under sofas, through pockets, and into cabinets. Defeated, I slept fitfully.
Tuesday's sunrise woke me. Typically, not an early bird, I jolted out of bed and renewed the ruminant search. No activity had occurred on our bank accounts, so the wallet was secure, but secure where? Behind the washer and dryer. Under a bag in the car. On the deck. In the greenhouse. Beneath a boxwood shrub. Maybe our pup had carried it off. Under beds. Into closets. To his bed.
By noon I had given up. "I'm gonna have to put a stop on all the cards," I said to my husband who was quietly finishing a turkey sandwich. I had spent lunchtime reviewing for him my replayed scenes from Friday. He said nothing.
I dialed the bank's number.
"Stop! Found it!" And there it was, in his hand, my precious wallet -- ice cold. "Found it in the freezer."
Honestly, there is a logical explanation. A frozen pork loin, a distracted mind, etcetera.
But..
As one friend said, "I have been meaning to talk with you about your habit of wearing your bra on the outside of your blouse...just saying."
......
“Your own brain ought to have the decency to be on your side!”
― Terry Pratchett, Wintersmith
I discovered my wallet's absence on Monday morning at 10:30 when, at Kinko's the salesclerk said, "That will be eleven dollars and forty-three cents." A woman fishing into her purse knows what is there; hers is a confident, familiar act, her hand like eyes. My husband would have to dump my bag upside down to find a rock in it. I can find a stray menthol lozenge in a split second.
"Oops!" I said. "Must have left my wallet on my desk. I will be right back." And so it began, the spinning search for the wallet.
Life must go on. One cannot push a pause button to look for a wallet. My day took off without the wallet, sans identification and money. Instead of focusing on the business at hand, my mind slipped into replay mode: Where had I been? I sent texts to friends. Maybe they had seen it.
"Sorry. Haven't seen it."
The wallet's absence sliced through Monday's schedule, serious discussions at a board meeting, companionable conversations with friends, a dinner party, and an evening concert. It was bedtime before I could look under sofas, through pockets, and into cabinets. Defeated, I slept fitfully.
Tuesday's sunrise woke me. Typically, not an early bird, I jolted out of bed and renewed the ruminant search. No activity had occurred on our bank accounts, so the wallet was secure, but secure where? Behind the washer and dryer. Under a bag in the car. On the deck. In the greenhouse. Beneath a boxwood shrub. Maybe our pup had carried it off. Under beds. Into closets. To his bed.
By noon I had given up. "I'm gonna have to put a stop on all the cards," I said to my husband who was quietly finishing a turkey sandwich. I had spent lunchtime reviewing for him my replayed scenes from Friday. He said nothing.
I dialed the bank's number.
"Stop! Found it!" And there it was, in his hand, my precious wallet -- ice cold. "Found it in the freezer."
Honestly, there is a logical explanation. A frozen pork loin, a distracted mind, etcetera.
But..
As one friend said, "I have been meaning to talk with you about your habit of wearing your bra on the outside of your blouse...just saying."
......
“Your own brain ought to have the decency to be on your side!”
― Terry Pratchett, Wintersmith
Wednesday, April 2, 2014
First Love
“I make it easier for people to leave by making them hate me a little.”
― Cecelia Ahern, The Book of Tomorrow
I was 19, a time still fresh in my memory but honestly so long ago I should have left it behind in life's wake of marriages, deaths, children, and grandchildren. And who knows? This story might be colored by my needs today. I'm incapable of parsing events then and now into evidentiary facts, so convinced I am of the emotional lesson.
I was in love. Ridiculously, blindly in love with a handsome fella, so handsome I found it hard to believe I'd landed him with so little effort, standing in line during freshman orientation, drinking coffee, lightly talking about where we were from. That day stretched into lunch together, a walk in a nearby park, and one date after another, delicious kisses, and well, let's just say it was difficult to concentrate on writing essays about Poe's "Cask of Amontillado" and Faulkner's "Bear." Somehow I managed to memorize how DNA and RNA differed and could categorize periods of art history in spite of my preoccupation for my handsome boyfriend who pulsed within me like electrical current.
The handsome one modeled for Los Angeles magazines between semesters. His blue eyes weren't just for show; they were invitational as in "Tell me." His neatly cut bronze hair polished his clean cut appearance, his athletic body appearing casually confident. We met after classes, talked every day, played together, laughed and cried together. We admired gardens and enjoyed art. We danced on Saturday nights and attended church on Sundays. I liked how his gentleness contrasted with his athletic energy.
And then after two years of long walks through neighborhood gardens, golf and tennis games, weekend ski adventures, long bike rides through the countryside, beach adventures, and studying together, something changed. A tilt.
The clues were subtle. He called less. He was concentrating on his studies. He said less. The distance morphed to irritations, misunderstandings, and confusion.
He wasn't seeing someone else. He just wasn't present. He became my opaque dinner companion and my silent dance partner.
I liked him less but loved him more. It felt odd.
I waited as if suspended.
Whatever was happening, I could not dislike him, much less hate him.
And then the spring semester ended. He came to kiss me goodby. I was returning home for my summer in San Francisco, he for his summer in San Bernadino. The kiss was unlike any in my experience, a kiss, I now know, filled with feelings of failure and grief, but warm with affection and care. He had decided love wasn't enough.
His Dearest Diane letter arrived two weeks later. He had dropped out of school. He had failed to meet his parent's requirements for his remaining at Willamette University. He believed he wasn't good enough for me and there would be no changing his mind. He had to carve out a new pathway. He apologized for the confusions and misunderstandings. He realized he had tried to make it easier by distancing himself. I had surprised him with my patience and acceptance while he had anticipated my learning to hate him. He would never forget me and love me for ever. But it was over.
I don't know about him. But I have never forgotten him, and in a way I have always loved him, as he was then, not the man he became, but the man he was at the time.
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