The Fire This Time

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My daughter Emma and her husband, along with their two cats, are back home in their LA apartment for the moment. They’d spent two nights in her studio (Emma’s an artist), a bit farther south and more removed from danger. The studio lacks heat and a place to sleep or shower, but at least it had electricity and better access to more escape routes. The cats loved exploring their new digs, blissfully oblivious to Santa Ana winds, go-bags, whether an evacuation warning would turn into an order, and if there’d be time if it did.

After a brief respite that included showers and a warm, soft bed instead of a concrete floor, the winds are picking up again. There is no rain in the forecast, no end in sight for the City of Angels.

Into this tragic hellscape blusters our once and future President, convicted felon Donald Trump. As usual, he is pouring gasoline on the fire. The firehoses in some parts of LA ran dry due to pressure drops and the magnitude of the catastrophe, but Trump’s divisive firehose of lies and vitriol spews at full force. He has not even had the decency to muster desultory thoughts and prayers for the millions of Angelenos, tens of thousands of whom have been displaced and whose homes and neighborhoods lie in charred ruins.

In the past decade since Trump has wormed his way into my brain, I have mused about what epithet best suits him: Thug, carnival-barker, wrecking ball, charlatan, mob boss, and some others I reluctantly rejected because they’re the same dehumanizing words used by Nazis and Rwandans to soften the ground for genocide. Arsonist-in-Chief strikes me as the most apt.

Trump delights in setting fires and watching people scramble amid the unpredictable chaos. The more, the better, so people are overwhelmed and have no safe place to turn. It’s a sadistic form of shock and awe. Right now, his lies and finger-pointing about LA have added to the conflagration. Before that it was the victims of Hurricane Helene, the residents of Springfield, Ohio, Puerto Rico, trans people, and–always in the line of fire–immigrants, women, reporters, Black and Brown people, anyone who dares to defy him. He even has the tell-tale fixation of the firefighter who lights the match–the stealth arsonist cloaked as hero. “I alone can fix it,” trumpets Trump about the fires he starts. But there is never any repair, just the kind of fix that is in for him and his rich and powerful cronies. Broken families, broken hearts, broken country be damned.

It breaks my mind that America has re-elected Trump despite, or even because of, his clear unfitness and incendiary vengeance. Now we are stuck with another round of the Arsonist-in-Chief, also the Climate-Denier-in-Chief. Climate change is the real culprit in LA’s fires (besides the original water theft from Owens Valley to create a city of millions in a desert).  

We will not be spared the floods, or the fires, next time. They are here now, and will come more frequently and with more devastating impact unless we wake up. But being woke is out of vogue, so instead we’ll have a President hellbent on unraveling the fragile progress we’ve made to try to keep the planet from burning.

Trump voters and voters who stayed home, what have you done?

Channeling Hugh

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My father-in-law had a handwritten note above his desk that guided him every day through his long life (he died at age 96 just weeks after Trump’s 2016 victory). It read:

  • Pause
  • Think
  • Plan
  • Act

I think of my father-in-law a lot, especially now. Hugh was a conscientious objector in WWII, a political science professor in later life, and a committed civil-rights and anti-war champion throughout. He was invariably courteous, friendly, and even-keeled. Hugh favored reason over emotion. So he followed his credo in times of trouble, whether trouble came in the form of a clogged drain or foreign policy catastrophes: Pause, think, plan, act.

And that is what I intend to do now.

I very much doubt that my father-in-law would applaud how I’m currently fulfilling these intentions. For instance, I don’t think Hugh’s “Pause” would consist of listening to Elin Hilderbrand’s delicious Nantucket beach reads. Nor would he lie awake at night thinking about how remaining behind on New Yorkers maybe means the election hasn’t really happened. His plan would probably not involve looking at comfort food recipes. Stress-eating a batch of freshly made chocolate chip cookies wouldn’t be his chosen action.

He might be with me on doing a lot of yardwork, though.

Hugh is also with me as inspiration as I try to pick my way through Trump 2.0’s “Move Fast and Break Things” manifesto. As an antidote to this horror, and in honor of my father-in-law, I will slowly move to come up with my own, more enduring version of Pause, Think, Plan, Act.

At least I hope so.

One Conversation at a Time

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Phone banking can be tedious: Hang ups, wrong numbers, people who are angry because they’re inundated with calls.

There are also plenty of people who affirm they’re voting the way you hope they are, or need a bit of help with voting information, or thank you for your work despite the fact that they’re inundated.

Then there are the nuggets that make it all worthwhile. The other day, the father of the woman I was trying to reach in Pennsylvania said she was at work, but could he help? I said I was a volunteer calling about the presidential election. He replied, “I am a 67-year-old lifelong Republican who is voting for Kamala Harris and other Democrats all the way down the ticket.” His immediate family of five—a mix from both parties—were all voting the same way.

Last week I spoke with a woman I’ll call Kay in Wisconsin who told me that she and her husband had decided not to vote this year. When I asked her to tell me more, it was clear how overwhelmed she felt, not knowing who or what to believe. It just felt easier and wiser to lay low and sit this one out.

Immigration was one of Kay’s top concerns. She didn’t like that so many resources were going to immigrants. “It’s a complicated issue,” I said, mentioning that Kamala Harris would sign the border bill that Trump had torpedoed. Did she have any personal experience with immigrants in her community. No—she’d just read about it. Kay also mentioned that she was unhappy about the Dobbs decision.

Kay had watched the debate, and thought that Trump was a liar and Kamala was great. I noted that what disturbed me most was how Trump constantly sowed chaos and division. Our conversation then turned to Springfield, Ohio; we agreed that Trump’s and Vance’s lies about pet-eating Haitians had brought harm to the city’s immigrant and native residents alike. We talked about lots of things, including our fondness for President Obama.

Still, Kay seemed discouraged. “Does voting matter?” she asked. “Do they even count the votes?” Yes and yes. Especially in Wisconsin!

“If you were to vote,” I asked, “Who would you vote for?”

“Oh, Kamala!” Kay replied without hesitation. So would her husband.

I said, “It breaks my heart that you feel like your voice doesn’t matter, and that you’re voluntarily letting louder people drown it out.” Kay took this in. I told her how moved I was by our conversation, that it would stay with me long after we finished talking, and I hoped she felt the same way.

“You’ve given me a lot to think about,” Kay said. “Thank you for helping me see the light.”

I do not know for sure if Kay and her husband will vote this year. But I do know that this conversation mattered, and that tens of thousands of us are making these connections, unearthing these nuggets, turning non-voters into voters every day.

Happy Birthday, Mom(ala)

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My mother and Kamala Harris share a birthday. Kamala turns 60 today, and my mother would be 101 had she not died in 1995. (No Jimmy-Carter-like hanging on to cast a vote for her, alas!)

I think of my mother a lot, and especially during momentous political times. How she would have loved to mark her ballot for Kamala! On the other hand, the prospect of Trump as president once, let alone possibly twice, would have killed my mother. Although she died far too young, I am grateful she was spared having to live in an America with him as cause and symptom. Still, I wish she were here to guide me through these times.

I think back to 1972, when I was a senior in high school and highly aware of the presidential election for the first time. I found it impossible to believe that anyone could vote for Richard Nixon, and fervently believed that George McGovern would win. Did my mother share the same delusion? Or simply not want to disturb my beautiful, naive idealism? Was she as crushed as I was? How did she keep on going? Because I know she did. We all did. Less than two years later, we broke open the champagne when Nixon was forced to resign.

I miss my beautiful, naive idealism, and I miss my mother, but of course I’ve kept on going, too. I would like to put champagne in the fridge to celebrate Kamala’s victory. I find it impossible to believe that anyone could vote for Donald Trump. But the traumas of 2016 and the MAGA-fication of the Republican Party have taught me otherwise.

Still, I am cautiously optimistic. Not delusional, but hopeful. I would love to compare notes with my mother about keeping the faith through dire times. I would love for both of us to be able to bask together in the joy and fortitude that Kamala exemplifies, to celebrate her victory.

Happy Birthday, Mom. Wish you were here, though I’m glad you are not. I will work and vote with all my heart for Kamala in honor of you.

And thank you, Kamala. Happy Birthday to you, too!

Election Countdown

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Soon after Joe Biden was declared the winner in November 2020, my husband said, “I thought we’d at least get a mental health break, but I guess not.” Trump and his allies, who’d sowed chaos and seeds of doubt about fair elections long before any votes were cast, wasted no time in spreading the Big Lie and passing lots of laws to make voting harder in swing states. Although personally and even sometimes politically we’ve had many bright spots in the last four years—2 weddings, no funerals, and no red wave in 2022!—it’s been quite a psychological slog.

My mental health improved greatly on July 21, the day President Biden announced he was stepping aside and endorsing Kamala Harris to take his place as the 2024 nominee. Before then, and especially after his disastrous debate performance, I had pretty much felt on a glide path to doom. “At least there won’t be another insurrection,” I consoled myself at the thought of Trump’s re-election.

With the coming of Kamala, hope and joy returned, along with a fighting chance. I have reveled in cat memes, rising poll numbers, a pitch-perfect convention, Taylor Swift’s endorsement, Michelle Obama, Tim Walz, Doug Emhoff, and all the Every-Identity-Group-Under-the-Sun-for-Kamala fundraisers. And whose mood didn’t improve watching an unraveling Donald Trump swallow the bait every single time in their September 10 debate?

And yet, here we are at essentially a coin toss. I feel cautiously optimistic, and also increasingly anxious. It all depends on the day’s vibes, my wish-casting, whether a new Times/Siena poll has dropped, and the number of undecided people who complain that they still don’t know enough about Kamala Harris’s plans, which I fear is a way of saying There’s no way I’ll vote for a Black woman. I feel good about reports of Harris-Walz signs in deep red towns, somebody’s ancient, rock-ribbed Republican uncle voting for Kamala. Then, on a phone bank to Michigan, a guy answers, “Are you planning to vote for Harris or Trump?” with “I would not piss on her if she were on fire. Have a good day!” At least he was polite.

So I’m pretty anxious, but living by the axiom, “Do more, worry less.” I volunteer a lot for Airlift, which raises money to support grassroots groups who excel at turning non-voters into voters in battleground states. I know a lot of people who are responding to Michelle Obama’s call to “Do Something.”

We’re doing what we can for our future. And for our mental health. Let’s bring it home in the next 35 days.

Passing the Torch

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My husband Jonathan and I had recently left the Denver airport and were driving along Highway 70 on the first day of our vacation hiking in the Rockies when the texts started pinging.

Jonathan checked my phone, and there was the news we’d been hoping for: President Biden had stepped aside. The 27 minutes between his announcement and subsequent endorsement of Vice President Kamala Harris had not yet elapsed, but by the time we stopped for lunch, Biden had passed the torch and the $96 million in the campaign chest to his VP. The cafe we chose had good chili and a comfy reading nook. There on the shelf was Kamala’s Way and Let Us Dream: The Path to a Better Future, by Pope Francis. “From the Pope’s lips to God’s ears,” I said to Jonathan.

Now five weeks later, the Democratic Convention has just ended, converted quickly from what likely would have been a valiant but manufactured attempt at optimism to through-the-roof euphoria. On the first night, ear-splitting enthusiasm rocked the rafters as just about everybody’s lips sang the praises of not just the newly formed Harris-Walz ticket, but also and especially of President Biden.

“Thank you, Joe!” chanted the first-night crowd as they waved signs that reinforced the message. The ever-snarky New York Times political reporter Peter Baker wrote, “They were thanking him, yes, for what he accomplished during a lifetime in public service. But they were also thanking him, let’s be honest, for not running again.” He’s not wrong.

At the end of a long night, President Biden delivered his farewell address–reworked just a little, it seemed–from the acceptance speech he had hoped to give at the Convention’s crowning event. It was a poignant moment, and also a reminder that had Convention Joe shown up to the debate, he would still be the nominee, and we’d likely be Ridin’ with Biden over the cliff to defeat.

The most moving part of Biden’s speech came near the end, as he quoted a verse from a song treasured by his family:

What shall our legacy be,

What will our children say?

Let me know in my heart when my days are through,

America, America, I gave my best to you.

He did, over and over again, culminating in this final act of stepping aside. President Biden left the stage, left Chicago for a vacation in California, left the torch in the able and willing hands of a new generation of talent with an incredible candidate leading the way. Thank you, Joe.

Now it is Kamala’s way, a path to a better future. But let’s not just dream or pray about it—let’s work hard to make it happen.

Yosemite!

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After our daughter’s wedding last month, we decided that instead of a long slog home from LA on Interstate 5, we’d continue the celebration with a long slog on a trail in Yosemite Valley. So after the post-wedding goodbye breakfast, we drove to the cute town of Mariposa, positioning us for a restful night before an early morning entry into Yosemite. Since it was a weekday before the summer crowds descended, we avoided the need for reservations as well as swarms of people (though not necessarily mosquitoes–the price of being there during peak run-off).

Initially, we hoped to recreate a glorious hike we took 15-20 years ago, when we took the bus up to Glacier Point, then descended into the Valley on the long and scenic Panorama Trail. But since the bus hadn’t started running yet, we decided we would be the bus, using leg power to propel ourselves 3,200′ up the Four-Mile Trail (which is actually 4.7 miles each way) to Glacier Point from the Valley floor, then down again the same way.

As Google’s AI describes the hike, “it’s not for the faint of heart.” More enticing and poetic, the human who presumably wrote the park’s website notes that the Four-Mile Trail is where “Yosemite Falls gives you the full monty.”

It also offers “great views of most of the landmarks that Yosemite Valley’s famous for, and all from angles you’re not used to seeing on postcards.” These promises, unlike the mileage implied by the trail’s name, turned out to be true:

My husband and I met 40 years ago on a 15-mile hike, and have hit the trails together ever since. Which is to say that even though we’ve slowed down, we tackled the well-graded switchbacks with relative ease. After tooling around Glacier Point for a while and eating our lunch, we had the crazy thought: Why not go down to the Valley via the 8.5-mile Panorama Trail? Sure, it was twice as long as going back the way we came, but we had enough food and water, plus it was the hike we’d intended to do all along. Besides, wasn’t it all down hill?

Well, sort of. We forgot about the 1,000′ climb after descending to Illilouette Falls. But we were high on our spontaneity, and kept saying to one another that even though we probably shouldn’t have done it, we were glad we did. It’s easy to see why:

And so we happily proceeded to the top of Nevada Falls. Which is not the same as the bottom of Nevada Falls.

Or, for that matter, Vernal Falls, descended via the Mist Trail. Since it was early June–peak water!–it was more like the Carwash Trail. So we descended very slowly down hundreds of often-slippery granite steps, our feet feeling not quite as fresh as when we had started out eight hours earlier. Still, a rainbow is a sign of hope:

Eventually we made it to less vertical ground, the falls behind us, an hour to go on easy terrain to the Valley, our spirits and even our knees more or less intact, just in time for dinner.

That’s when we learned that the free shuttle wasn’t running at this particular stop until the next day. We ate our leftover lunch, then trudged endlessly to Curry Village, which looked like a tent-cabin refugee camp. But at least there was a shuttle stop, and then a shuttle bus, and then a short walk across the meadow back to our car, the golden light yielding to dusk. We had been gone eleven hours, and proudly sent a photo of our accomplishment to our daughters:

They were impressed, and jealous. Mission accomplished, we drove 2.5 hours to our hotel in Oakdale as the sky turned from orange to black, then tumbled into bed, exhausted but happy.

Just Married!

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We were beyond excited last July when Emma got engaged. It’s always great to have a wedding to look forward to, at least when you like the person your child is marrying. Which we do greatly, adoring both our daughters’ choices.

From the get-go, Emma and J wanted more of a party than a wedding. They live 5 minutes from LA’s Griffith Park, so they reserved a picnic area there early on, and didn’t sweat the details too much. Emma, her sister Ally, and I pretty much cleaned out Trader Joe’s flowers, filled some mason jars, made a bouquet and a couple of boutonnieres, and called it a day. I always thought of this wedding as a picnic with vows, which turns out to be an apt description and a whole lot of fun.

But we had to practice for the picnic with vows, so the day before we had a walk-through and a fun rehearsal dinner with delicious food:

The real thing came the next day, June 1. It’s great when the officiant is your childhood friend (whose mother is a minister, so she had more than online-credential cred). The flower girl was the 2-year-old daughter of one of Emma’s best friends from 2nd grade. “She probably doesn’t know how to walk in a straight line,” Emma said, “But who cares?” (Note: The flower girl DID know how to walk in a straight line and loved sprinkling petals from roses randomly stolen from neighborhood bushes. She did NOT live up to the warning Meryl Streep issues to her daughter as she crams in all the advice she can think of before she dies of cancer in the movie One True Thing: “Don’t have a flower girl–they always ruin weddings.”)

Down the aisle we go!

With hugs before the hand-off:

Then the exchange of truly impressive vows (both bride and groom are from families of writers) and rings:

And the deed is done!

In case you’re wondering about the bridal footwear, Emma is an artist, which means she can get away with any dubious aesthetic choice she wants under the rubric of artistic flair. Emma had warned me beforehand: “You won’t like my shoes.” She got blisters (no comment from the mother of the bride):

Luckily, it was a footloose and fancy-free kind of wedding:

Toasting the happy couple:

A taco truck and appetizer trays and salads from Whole Foods provided sustenance. I volunteered to do all the desserts, which worked out pretty well, especially since my husband Jonathan hand-dipped and hand-sprinkled every single one of about 9 dozen chocolate-dipped pistachio shortbread cookies (the bottom two photos–Key Lime Blondies and Bittersweet Brownie Shortbread–are lifted from online photos; mine didn’t look nearly as professional, though they tasted great):

And, of course, there was cake:

Our baby girl, a bride!

Best of all, we are now grandparents. Not just to J’s pre-existing kids, but to 7-week-old kittens:

From Whales to Redwoods

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One of my best moves as a mother was to keep a journal through my kids’ childhoods, writing at least every month birthday and on special occasions, like when they said really funny or endearing things.

My husband and I recently discovered one such gem while reading through Emma’s journal, in preparation for our toasts at her upcoming wedding.

When Emma was seven years old, she declared, “In my second life, I would choose to be a whale, because they stay with their mothers their whole life.” This charming sentiment saw some revisions as Emma grew older. And a good thing, too, since it means she has instead wisely chosen someone else to spend the rest of her life with.

J proposed to Emma under the redwoods not far from her childhood home because, he said, redwoods grow strong and tall as they reach for the sky, live a long time, and are deeply interconnected with each other and their entire community.

Emma said yes, because how could anyone refuse such skill with metaphors? Not to mention J’s countless sterling qualities that complement her own.

Their deep love and comfort with one another is palpable. We have never seen Emma so happy, and are glad she traded in whales for redwoods, and me for J.

May they always reach for the sky, growing ever stronger together with deep love, interconnection, and happiness. 

Total Immunity

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In January 2016, some writing friends and I rented a house at the Russian River so we could concentrate on our writing. Naturally, we did anything but—instead we napped, cooked, browsed the internet, stared into space. I was in the kitchen when my friend who was reading the news looked up and announced, “So now Trump says he could stand in the middle of Fifth Avenue and shoot somebody without losing any voters.”

I burst out laughing. I was one of the many back then who regarded Trump’s candidacy as a total joke. At times I found him quite funny, and thought he could have made a go of it as a stand-up comic, what with his innate feel for the audience and sense of comic timing. Yet I couldn’t imagine him getting the nomination, let alone becoming President.

The joke’s on me. It stopped being funny long, long ago. In fact, most of the time I feel terrified. Not so much by Trump, who has always made it perfectly clear that he’s a total fraud who has no business being anywhere near elected office. What alarms me are those voters and so-called adults in the room who have continued to support him no matter how many shots he takes in broad daylight. Even inciting an insurrection hasn’t deterred his tens of millions of fans. Or most of his fellow Republican politicians and nominees who hate his guts but will still vote for him.

Of course, Trump has lost voters, which is why he’s no longer president. But still.

My mind has been boggled and broken thousands of times by what Trump has gotten away with.  His latest legal claims of total immunity take the cake. They are as ludicrous and laughable as his becoming president once struck me. But once again the joke’s on me.

So I guess it’s true that Trump could stand in the middle of Fifth Avenue and shoot somebody without losing any votes.

I just never imagined that the conservative members of the Supreme Court would be driving the getaway car.