Tara Out, Filoli In

Before I knew better, I devoured Gone with the Wind. As a preteen, I’d stay up all night reading it under the covers with a flashlight, then start over again to best my time. I watched it on the big screen every chance I got. I blame GWTW for my lifelong yearning to visit southern plantations in the full flower of spring. Perhaps the hoop skirts would be gone, but the rhododendrons, azaleas, dogwood, magnolia–they’d be magnificent!

“You could take the special tours set up from the point of view of slaves,” my friends who had gone on Civil Rights tours helpfully suggested. (This was when we all said “slaves” instead of “enslaved people.”) Of course I would do that, too, but I wanted the full-on Tara experience. Again, minus the hoop skirts and the enslaved people.

I confessed my guilty wish to my friend Lisa. Disgusted, she said, “Why don’t you just visit Filoli instead?”

Filoli is a 645-acre estate just a bit south of San Francisco. It was originally built in 1917 as a private residence for William Bourn, who controlled the Empire Mine and San Francisco Gas Company, orchestrating a merger that became Pacific Gas and Electric. According to Wikipedia, Bourn’s investment in a water company bought by San Francisco led the San Francisco Chronicle to regularly pillory him as a thief and scoundrel for water rates, 

But at least the man didn’t enslave people. The name Filoli, the website explains, is derived from the first two letters from the key words of Bourn’s personal credo:

Fight for a just cause.

Love your fellow man.

Live a good life

Not bad for a rich guy described as a “socialite and entrepreneur.” In fact, the website rather hilariously features a Land Acknowledgment (the estate is “situated on the unceded ancestral lands of the Ramaytush Ohlone,” and Diversity, Equity, and Inclusion language is plastered all over the “About” page.

Since Filoli can best be described as a lovely destination for the Ladies Who Lunch crowd, this seems a bit much. But again, at least it’s not Tara. And the owners after the Bourns included an avid gardener whose family bequeathed the estate to the public in 1975.

So I’ve taken Lisa’s advice, and tried to mitigate years of mainlining plantation propaganda by visiting Filoli. Recently I even got a membership. Since Filoli was slammed by the drought and pandemic (and because those Ladies Who Lunch are of an age when they keep dying), they’ve gone all out to entice new members with huge discounts.

Now Filoli’s my go-to place. Last week the roses were in full bloom:

.

There’s even a dogwood in full bloom for those of us with that southern yearning:

Remembering Rachi

On this Memorial Day, I am thinking of my mother-in-law, Rachi, who died 6 years ago today, just shy of her 90th birthday.

I couldn’t have been luckier when it comes to mothers-in-law. She did a lot more than give birth to the baby boy I would later marry.

I met Rachi (and her equally wonderful husband Hugh) on a hike at Tennessee Valley, a couple of months after Jonathan and I started dating. Within fifteen minutes, she pulled him aside and declared, “She’s perfect.”

Rachi won my heart, too: during the usual get-to-know-you chit chat, she asked about my siblings and what they did. I mumbled that one of my brothers was kind of embarrassing, not wanting to admit that he was a Rajneeshee.

Rachi ventured a guess: “What? Is he a corporate attorney?” Nothing could be more horrifying to this Old Leftie. Rachi loved the unconventional, so my brother passed the test with flying colors.

So did I. Over lunch at the Pelican Inn, I basked in my future in-laws’ ready embrace, a warm, supportive love that was easily reciprocated and never diminished.

Hugh and Rachi met at Antioch College; their first encounter was an argument over his support for the socialist Norman Thomas for President (despite her own socialist leanings, she was always a pragmatic voter, viewing such idealistically cast ballots as a wasted vote). This sparked a life-long love cemented by politics, a dedication to civil rights, the peace movement, and all manner of intellectual debate. Hugh and Rachi began a tradition of political betting–whoever won got to donate a small sum to their chosen cause. Hugh died a month after Trump was elected president. When we were cleaning out his stuff, we found an index card Rachi had written in early 2016 betting that the Republican nominee would win.

When Jonathan and his sister were kids, Rachi spent a month in jail with fellow anti-Vietnam War protestors who had staged a sit-in to prevent young men from being drafted. The sentencing judge wanted to make an example of them. She spoke highly of the prison food (I suspect she relished the break from cooking) and of the women who were in custody on prostitution charges. In their later assisted-living years, Hugh and Rachi stood with Seniors for Peace every Friday afternoon at a busy intersection protesting the latest madness. Rachi rode an adult tricycle everywhere that sported an “I’m Already Against the Next War” bumper sticker.

Rachi always made people feel like they were the best, most interesting person she’d ever met. An accomplished writer and editor herself, she enthused over every thank you note, Christmas letter, and essay I wrote. Rachi loved her grandchildren, though she was never the sappy, sentimental type. When our oldest daughter, Emma, was a toddler, and insisted on pushing her own stroller, stopping every 10 seconds on Marina Green, Rachi fumed, “This isn’t a walk, this is torture!” She found it hilarious when Emma, politely said of the doll Rachi gave her when our youngest, Ally, was born, “I don’t like dolls berry much.” Not so much new sisters, either.

Years later, Rachi gave thousands of dollars to a scammer who convinced her that Emma was in trouble and needed the money to get bailed out of a drug charge. Although Rachi was embarrassed to have fallen for it, she said she’d do it again in a heartbeat if it meant helping her granddaughter. This same granddaughter spoke at Rachi’s memorial service about how much her grandmother’s love of the unconventional had meant to her as a quirky artist whose straight-arrow parents never quite got her.

Rachi devoted herself to good causes her entire life. She tutored disadvantaged kids in East Palo Alto. True to her principles, she refused to buy wrapping paper from our kids’ schools’ endless fundraisers, saying, “Kids shouldn’t have to beg, we should raise taxes.” Once when her pearls were stolen after a robbery, she expressed gratitude that the burglar hadn’t made a mess, and thought he probably needed the money anyway. (Rachi cared not a whit about fashion and appearances, and was the least materialistic person I’ve ever known.) A fervent defender of Palestinian rights far ahead of her time, Rachi endured years of abuse from people who called her a self-hating Jew and much worse (almost all these people now share her views).

Despite her clear-sightedness and despair about the world’s injustices, Rachi was generous, funny, and joyful, with a wide circle of friends and family. She was an inveterate writer of Letters to the Editor–the New York Times alone published more than 150.

After Hugh died just shy of his 97th birthday, Rachi was heartbroken, and went downhill fast. Their’s was a life-long true partnership of love and respect. We still have their commingled ashes, and spread them bit by bit on beautiful hikes for commemoration.

That’s what comes to mind on this Memorial Day. Rest in peace, Rachi. You’re the best.

Pinnacles

Of all the places we love to go, The Pinnacles is one of our favorite non-local destinations. We first went 35 years ago, and just returned from our latest visit last weekend. Here’s a golden-oldie about that first trip (with new pictures, which is why that gent’s hair is gray)magical then, magical now.

It’s a steep haul up the High Peaks Trail, especially when you’re seven months pregnant with your first child. But back then, giddy with promise, my husband Jonathan and I floated past the massive boulders of Pinnacles National Park. Cresting the summit, baby bulk and all, I relished the double take of the buff, shirtless teenagers loitering atop the rocks. They paused mid-swagger to glance in horror at my swollen belly as I conquered the mountain in my smocked maternity top.

Our family has returned to the Pinnacles again and again, drawn by the massive cliffs, soaring spires, and lush spring wildflowers. Leaving behind the fragmented kaleidoscope of daily life, we are calmed by the reliable sameness of the timeless, indifferent peaks.

Yet even in this constant landscape, change is under way. The fantastic rock formations are the remains of an ancient volcano ravaged by erosion, creeping steadily up the Salinas Valley along the San Andreas Fault. I am grateful that only subtle clues dispel the illusion of permanence. A precariously balanced boulder has fallen from its perch. Spatters of chartreuse and rust lichen toil as alchemists, turning rock to soil. Their magic allows monkey flowers the color of apricots to bloom from dirt pockets hidden in solid stone.

Time has worked its alchemist’s magic on us as well. Two years after our initial trip, we camp at the Pinnacles, weighed down by the accoutrements of toddlerhood — diapers, goldfish crackers, juice boxes, a travel crib. Emma, whose in utero view had been obscured, now enjoys the scenery from the baby backpack that digs into our shoulders as we trudge along the dusty trail.

When we return again, the campground has been paved over for more parking. This time, we have two young daughters in tow, barely out of diapers. But Emma and Ally are definitely into sit-down strikes at the prospect of hiking more than a few hundred yards. Not wishing to fight an uphill battle, we content ourselves with the flat path at the base of the mountains so the girls can splash in the creek. Jonathan, impatient with the meandering pace of childhood, sprints to the summit while the girls and I delight in wild bouquets and rocky forts along the valley floor.

The next time the Pinnacles beckon, Emma and Ally gamely traverse the High Peaks Trail. They are enchanted by poppies sprouting out of boulders, the rock that looks like a camel. The girls nibble on miner’s lettuce and strategic bribes of chocolate, scampering around the summit while their tired parents lag behind. Rocks and children tame each other: whininess turns to exultation, forbidding stone becomes an infinite playground.

Although the incline invites vertigo, the girls clamber up and down, up and down the footholds chiseled into the rock, swinging from the metal banister as if nature and the Park Service had fashioned monkey bars just for them. Jonathan and I must squeeze through the narrow cliff passage in an awkward crouch. But it is just the right size for Emma and Ally, who march through boldly upright, giggling as their crooked parents bump their heads against the rocky overhang.

We are not the only ones who find the Pinnacles a good place for families. Condors, recently reintroduced to the park, build nests in the sheltered crevices. While they teach their young how to catch thermals, we show ours how to catch the shine of buttercups on their chins in the warm sunlight.

Now our daughters have taken flight too, soaring and wavering in their own grown-up landscapes. Alone again, Jonathan and I make our pilgrimage to drink in the riotous wildflowers and steadfast rocks whenever time allows. As always, we stop in Soledad at Pacheco’s Mexican Grocery for tortas — soft white rolls dripping with spicy carnitas.

Soledad, gateway to the Pinnacles, has sprung up even faster than Emma and Ally. Twenty-seven years ago, it consisted of Pacheco’s, a prison, a few dusty streets of dilapidated houses, and a fleabag hotel with a cracked, empty swimming pool. Now the highway billboard reads: “It’s happening in Soledad.”  Vineyards dot the hillsides, and a tony resort lies adjacent to the Pinnacles. Kids from tidy homes with manicured yards swarm the soccer field at the spanking new school. A vast shopping center dwarfs the original Main Street, but we still head to our old Mexican grocery. Pacheco’s, whose tortas remain a juicy, scrumptious bargain, is as timeless as the Pinnacles.

Fueled by the succulent tortas and memories, Jonathan and I start up the High Peaks Trail once more. Although stiffer and a little creaky, we ascend quickly past the boulders and apricot blooms of monkey flower.

Again and again, we come back to ourselves in the shelter of the enduring cliffs.

Mudshine

April showers bring May flowers. Atmospheric rivers bring mud. Lots of mud. Still, those of us from California who have spent the last few years amid fire and drought have been eagerly scanning our weather apps for a break in the record-breaking rains. Time to try out our newly webbed feet on those blessedly water-logged trails!

At the first indication of a clear weekend my husband Jonathan and I headed out to Point Reyes National Seashore and Marsh Cottage in Inverness. We first visited Marsh Cottage 35 years ago, our last trip before we had kids–I was hugely pregnant with our first daughter, born less than a month later on Mother’s Day. Nowadays I believe that kind of outing is called a babymoon, but to us it was just plain glorious–a sweet, rustic very private cottage overlooking the southern marshes of Tomales Bay, and close to Point Reyes hikes filled with wild iris and purple lupine.

We’d been back to Marsh Cottage a few times since, but the pandemic and a housing crisis banning short-term rentals had made it available only as a long-term rental. Friends of ours from Santa Cruz, whom we’d introduced to Marsh Cottage years before, decided they needed a pied-a-terre farther north on the coast for six months, and said we were welcome to use it when they weren’t there.

It’s still glorious–timeless (though updated with wifi) and charming. Three sunny days of hiking awaited us. Also glorious, if a bit muddy, the wildflowers only just emerging after months of rain and chill.

The ranger had warned us that there was a bit of standing water near the crest of Laguna Trail. By which he meant a body of water somewhat smaller than the Pacific Ocean visible beyond the crest. We met hardy backpackers heading home from Coast Camp, describing their night there in a bog as a bit windy and cold. One truth-teller allowed as how it was awful. But knowing we had a cottage to return to, we were undaunted, and trampled through brush to avoid the standing water. We saw a father and daughter merrily wading through in bare feet, boots dangling from their hands. That struck me as a bit rash, until my own poison oak rash started itching like crazy three days later.

The Coast Trail was much drier, and so green, except for the fire-ravaged tree trunks on the distant ridge line. We had been on this same trail on an August morning in 2020. Later that day, the whole central area of Point Reyes National Seashore was a conflagration. But nature is resilient, even more so than barefoot dads and daughters traipsing barefoot through mud.

Since gale-force winds were predicted for the next day, we altered our route from the most exposed point on the coast and steered clear of mud by walking up through residential streets to Inverness Ridge, then on to Mt. Vision, site of a 1995 fire from an illegal campfire not quite doused by the local teenagers who’d spent the night there. In an early act of restorative justice, the community embraced the remorseful teens even though the fire devastated thousands of acres and destroyed 45 homes. Although I’m sure the Mount Vision fire left scars, there’s little sign of it today–just a lot of beautiful ceanothus on the slopes heading down to the estuary.

Then down, down, back to town on the Perth Fire Road, where the huckleberry was in full bloom amid the stars–man-made and those perfected by nature. A weekend of mud-shiny bliss!

#OscarsSo”Meh”

Another night at the Oscars has come and gone, this time without possible criminal liability. Or memorable moments. Or even good movies. In fact, the decision to replace the red carpet with a beige one is an apt metaphor for the whole ho-hum event. As The Cut noted:

Meanwhile, many of the actual people on the carpet were rendered nearly invisible by its shade. The night’s guests, who didn’t find out about the color change until the carpet was unfurled last week, showed up in outfits that matched the floor, turning the carpet into a big, bizarre sea of camouflage.

Camouflage may have been the point this year. Academy bigwigs didn’t want to mention, let alone repeat, 2022’s Slap Heard Round the World. Host Jimmy Kimmel did not cooperate with this wish, quipping in response to the beige carpet that it showed “how confident we are that no blood will be shed.” In fact, Kimmel’s repeated references to The Slap throughout the awards ceremony provided about the only edgy (and funny) material all evening.

But star-on-star assaults are nothing compared to the wish to camouflage the overriding threat facing Hollywood: its imminent demise.  The Oscars are always self-aggrandizing, but this year the hyped-up glitz felt desperate.  So desperate that the Academy saw fit to run a commercial for this summer’s release of “The Little Mermaid” as part of the ceremony. Anything to get people back into theaters, I guess. But “Top Gun: Maverick” for Best Picture? Seriously? And I say this as someone who very much enjoyed the movie.

Which is more than I can say about a lot of the others. Usually I try to see all the top nominees, but after seeing plenty of them—in theaters and streaming—I didn’t see the point.

And yes, this means you, Everything Everywhere All at Once. I second the Guardian review, which referred to it as Nothing Nowhere Over a Long Period of Time. However, I concede that the exuberant cast and crew who kept traipsing up to collect their statues seemed like really nice and fun people. I also admire Michelle Yeoh for using her moment in the spotlight to run a piece in the New York Times the very next day to shine a light on the deplorable suffering of women and girls in humanitarian disasters.

It’s a far cry from suffering through another season of a so-so awards ceremony and films. Still, with Hollywood run aground on the pandemic and streaming shoals, and trying to break free through CGI, special effects, and lots of noise, I see little on offer to lure me back into theaters. Which is a shame, since I used to love going to the movies.

At least it’s a great achievement that this year possibly retired #OscarsSoWhite and #OscarsSoViolent. Now let’s hope for the retirement of #OscarsSo”Meh.”

Spring into Winter

The weather’s been wild across the country, including here in California. Rain, floods, mudslides, and now snow have caused a lot of damage. But also much joy, since we’ve been living for years with constant worry about drought and fires.

February is our spring here in the Bay Area. After a rainy January, the sun came out and delivered our usual Valentine of flowering plum trees. I’m a Valentine’s baby, and during a birthday walk, I discovered a downed branch laden with blossoms, which another woman and I split to bring the ephemeral beauty into our homes. Such an unexpected gift along with the usual one:

Already the blossoms have mostly given way to unfurling red and green leaves (the poison oak is unfurling at a pretty good clip too). But the daffodils are resplendent:

We had a dry spell for a couple of weeks, but thankfully, the rain started up again. Temperatures plummeted, and it began to snow, bringing blizzard warnings to LA and anxious ski resorts a break, at least until the snow closed major interstates. People have been skiing and sledding in Napa County, heart of the nearby wine country that’s been ravaged by fire and drought the last several years. From our living room window, we are agape at Mt. Tam, dusted with snow (some of it still there days later):

We have been growing webs between our toes, but the rain kindly stopped this afternoon so I could take a walk.

Then it began to hail. Oh, well. I am euphoric about the stuff coming down from the heavens, and here’s some euphorbia to celebrate:

Paper of Record

My husband and I just watched She Said, the film based on New York Times reporters Megan Twohey’s and Jodi Kantor’s investigation that brought down Harvey Weinstein and turbocharged the #MeToo Movement. We happened to see it on the same day that we’d contemplated canceling our Times subscription at least three times.

The first came when I listened to The Daily’s podcast coverage of the recent discovery of Joe Biden’s classified documents in all the wrong places. The sequel to the 2016 smash hit, “Oh, But Her Emails!,” “Documents!” is part of the breathless reporting that is one-tenth spelling out the differences between Biden’s and Trump’s behavior and nine-tenths implying nefarious intent with far, far more disturbing revelations to come. I suppose the one-tenth part counts among the Lessons Learned by responsible journalists whose hyperbolic coverage of the drip-drip-drip of Hillary’s misused server surely contributed to the mess we’re in now. Unfortunately, the greater Lesson Learned about stoking conflict to gain eyeballs, plus a misguided allegiance to “Fair and Balanced,” still triumphs. At least when Fox touted the “F&B” tagline, they knew it was ironic.

Later that day, I moved onto the Times Opinion section, only to be confronted with a column by Kellyanne Conway, Trump’s notorious campaign manager, counselor, and coiner of “alternative facts.” Why the Times would give over precious inches to a known liar and political hack was beyond me, though I shouldn’t have been surprised since that’s a fair description of what has happened to our political discourse in general over the last many years. But I would not let Kellyanne off the hook: “How’s your marriage? And your daughter?” I unkindly asked her in my mind.

As I complained to my husband about these journalistic outrages over lunch, he added a third reason to quit the Times: “They’re going after us because we both use the same log-in to read the paper. I’ve explained that we’re in the same household, but they say ‘It’s just one user per subscription.’”

That evening, which was Takeout and Movie Night, we streamed She Said. It’s a good, though not great, movie, and one well worth seeing for the importance of the story alone. And also for the décor of the New York Times: chic red walls, bright and airy workspaces, a stunning cafeteria with floor to ceiling windows.

But the aesthetics are nothing compared to the paper’s unlimited resources, including sending the intrepid reporters overnight to London. Given that no expense was spared, I couldn’t help but wonder why the Times never sprang for a couple sets of Bluetooth headphones so the reporters were not constantly on speaker phone as they walked down streets or made dinner while passersby, husbands, and kids freely listened in. (Then I realized that this was a cinematic device designed to allow the audience to hear all, not half, of the conversations with vital sources. Duh!)

Best of all was the unstinting support of everyone at the Times. While poor Ronan Farrow had to go, beggar-like, to the New Yorker, after NBC News squelched his simultaneously exploding bombshell investigation, Twohey and Kantor had a whole army of senior staff behind them. Their editor, Rebecca Corbett, not only dispensed hugs, keen advice, and chocolate almonds freely throughout; she also knew that the pursuit of a good story could cure post-partum depression. Executive Editor Dean Baquet personally and hilariously ran interference with Harvey Weinstein himself. In contrast to the workplace Weinstein turned into a house of horrors, the New York Times came off as the best employer in the world. It was hard to even recall that just last month, labor unrest roiled the Times, and those sympathetic to the workers were encouraged to eschew their Wordle addiction for the day in solidarity.

Still, the Times did good, does good, and no doubt will continue to do good, especially if they ever get over their fetish for interviewing MAGA enthusiasts in diners. We’re likely never to quit them (of course, they may boot us off first if we continue to share one subscription in our household of two). In honor of this exasperating, brilliant paper of record, I even played Wordle for the first time ever yesterday.

As for Weinstein? Well, RIP Harvey–rot in prison.

Christmas Passed

I love decorating for Christmas, filling the house with greens, red berries, white flowers, and candles. I love hauling out our vast collection of ornaments, decorating the tree (though not stringing the lights), setting up the wooden trains we bought when the girls were little.

I also love dismantling Christmas after the New Year. This time, though, packing away the ornaments came with a dose of poignancy. I separated out all of Emma’s, fully expecting that they will no longer grace our tree, but hers and her partner’s in Christmases to come. After all, that has been the goal of our annual ornament ritual ever since our daughters were born. Just like our children, they are not ours to keep, but to send off into the world created and inhabited by our grown-up kids. (As long as said kids are capable of setting up more than a knee-high tree for their own Christmas traditions).

We’ve done without Ally’s ornaments since 2019, when she and her now-husband began hosting their own tree-trimming parties with a six-footer. Emma and her partner moved in together earlier this year, so I offered to gather her ornaments for the Big Transfer when we saw them at Thanksgiving. I confess to an inner sigh of relief when she declined, since they were going to spend the holidays away from home. But home is where the heart is, and their new home is full of heart. Even in this year of going elsewhere, Emma’s partner set up a miniature Christmas village and tiny tree. After all, he’s father to an 11-year-old and long accustomed to the habits of adulthood. I see a six-footer in their Christmas Future together.

So Emma’s ornaments are now in their own shoe box. As I went through our lists of how each of our ornaments came into the household, I was glad to see that some of the more hideous ones were from Emma’s era of gaudy poor taste (i.e., not mine)—gold-painted reindeer, a plastic peace sign, a plastic speed boat. I will miss, naturally, those selected by my superior taste, before she was too young to have a vote, especially this one, which we got for her first Christmas:

I will miss that little one in a cradle, just as I miss my little girls in their cribs and their belief in Santa and infallible parents. But I am thrilled to see them blossom into their own selves, and to pass on the bounty of Christmases past. I have the comfort of my memories, and knowing that these ornaments will forever be where they belong.

Plus, still with us is the ornament I will never relinquish—this inch-long striped stocking for the in-utero and mysterious Tadpole, more than a gleam in our eyes, but not yet known as the wonderful person to come who brought us into the magical world of parenthood:

Endings

It’s the last day of 2022, and time is pretty much running out if I hope to meet my goal of writing at least one blog post a month. I’ve never liked New Year’s Eve, although I enjoyed the Top 40 countdowns when I was young enough to stay at home without FOMO. Come to think of it, maybe the fear of missing out never weighed that heavily on me. During my 20s, I volunteered to take a shift on the crisis line every New Year’s Eve, and felt relieved to have purpose and a place to be without false cheer and a lot of drinking. One of the big reliefs of aging is how pleasant it is to fall into bed before 10:30, maybe having a nice dinner with friends, maybe not.

This year, I decided to finish my very last episode of “This is Us” on the very last day of the year. Fans of the show probably watched the final episode of the sixth season in May this year, when the family-centered, heartstring-pulling drama came to an end. Fans of the show with husbands who don’t like “This is Us,” however, kept forgetting to watch it during the day all by their lonesomes.

I’d pretty much forgotten about “This is Us” until this May, when I was laid up with Covid. I was three seasons behind and not particularly flattened with fatigue, so spent my quarantine catching up. I can see why my husband doesn’t like the show–it’s a bit heavy-handed and sappy, with such idealized family members who are always making great speeches that it can lead to lots of eye-rolling. But I loved it–all the characters (especially Uncle Nicky, the most acerbic and least sappy character), the tough issues tackled, the sense of depth and authenticity and struggle along with the idealization. Besides, Mandy Moore, who plays the main matriarch Rebecca very convincingly through several decades, really reminds me of a charismatic, positive-without-being-cloying, absolutely lovable mom I used to know. And since Ken Olin of “thirtysomething” was a mainstay of our 30s, how could I resist a series where he directed so many of the episodes?

As I made my way through the last season, I didn’t want it to end, so I’d go for weeks without watching. The last season deals with Rebecca’s rapidly advancing Alzheimer’s and death, and the fact that her end was approaching seemed fitting for this year’s end. The journey from life into death was depicted as a lovely Orient Express style train ride (without the murder mystery), in which significant loved ones are there in real life and in memory. Plus, Rebecca on the train looks like she’s dressed for New Year’s Eve!

Lots of heartfelt messages about family bonds and the beauty of life along with the sorrows abound throughout the show, particularly the last couple of episodes. Very corny, very moving. 2022 has been it’s own wild ride–so much sorrow in the world, so much love and laughter personally, especially this past Christmas, with both daughters here along with our new son-in-law and his whole family as well.

Tonight my best friend from graduate school and her husband will arrive, since we’ve all tested negative for Covid. We’ll eat good food and hopefully be in bed before 10:30. It will be the end of a long, trying, and rich year. As “This is Us” unsubtly reminds us, life goes on. 2023, here we come.

Happy New Year!

Midterm Musings

“The red wave is the ketchup dripping down the walls of Mar-a-Lago.” – From a Facebook Friend, 11/9/22

This is my favorite take on the 2022 midterms.

I also like the results, except for this bummer: More than a week after the election, the Republicans finally secured their 218th seat to win the House majority. Good luck with that, Kevin! Watch out for the ketchup stains on your trouser cuffs. Or maybe it’s blood from your backstabbing caucus.

Except for losing the House by a hair thanks to gerrymandering and New York’s apparent new status as a swing state, it was a good night for Democrats and their pro-choice, pro-democracy, anti-lunatic allies. Yes, of course, we had an assist from the Supreme Court and Donald Trump. Yes, of course, we still face enormous peril. But it’s time to break our doom and gloom habits even while remaining clear-eyed. This is a moment to celebrate. I’m reminded of the famous headline following the 1968 Harvard-Yale football game, in which Harvard, trailing by 16 points, evened up the score in the last 42 seconds:

Harvard Beats Yale, 29-29”

Given the momentum and the fact that who controls the Senate is no longer an issue, the chances of breaking the 50-50 tie there by re-electing Senator Raphael Warnock in Georgia’s December 6 run-off are good. Go Warnock! If you’re looking for a way to support grassroots groups on the ground ready to turn out every last vote for him, check out Airlift’s portal to the Georgia Alliance for Progress.

Of course, the House isn’t quite tied, and my wish that it could all have been favorably decided by Lauren Boebert going down is not to be. Still, I don’t think endless investigations of Hunter Biden will prove a winning case for Republican governance.

A lot of my political activism these days has been with the aforementioned Airlift, an all-volunteer group founded in my home county of Marin in Northern California after the 2016 election. Airlift raises money for progressive grassroots groups who excel in turning non-voters into voters through year-round organizing in key battleground regions. We do the research to make sure donors who are bombarded by a million asks can be sure that they’re getting the best bang for their buck.

I’m pretty busy putting out Airlift’s monthly newsletter and liaising with our two partner groups in North Carolina, so I haven’t done as much phone banking this cycle. Still, during the last couple of weeks, I put in some time calling voters in North Carolina, Arizona, and Nevada.

Mostly phone banking consists of lots of “Not Homes,” hang-ups, and wondering when I myself last answered the phone from an unknown caller. Still, there are some good conversations along the way that make it all worthwhile. I spoke to a woman in North Carolina who wasn’t planning to vote because she’s too busy for politics and didn’t even know the election was a week away. After ascertaining that she didn’t like the overturn of Roe or what the Republicans were doing, I convinced her to vote, and we made a plan for her to go to an early voting center before work the next day. .  

Another woman in North Carolina said, “We’ve got to stop the hate.” Someone else told me, “I don’t believe the polls. The women are with her [Cheri Beasley].” Sadly, they weren’t quite sufficiently with Cheri in North Carolina. But they did prevent the return of a GOP supermajority in the state legislature, thus preserving Governor Cooper’s veto power over further abortion restrictions and other right-wing legislation.  Pro-choice swing-state women–and men–were most everywhere else.

In Arizona, a woman said she used to be a Republican, but is no longer because “now they’re just peddling lies.” She confided that she’s lost friendships over it, and it breaks her heart.

Responding to my asking if we could count on his support for Mark Kelly, an Arizona man replied, “I would rather vote for a week-old tuna sandwich than for any Republican.”

Sometimes phone banking is cause for full-on belly laughs.

Speaking of which, here’s a hilarious note to close out my 2022 Midterm Report: