Category Archives: Personal

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.

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!

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. 

Spring in Our Steps

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My husband and I took advantage of a break in the rain and our schedules to head out for a quick getaway for some early Spring hiking. We always feel the most rejuvenated by short getaways for a night or two–no airports, no need to stop the mail or water the plants, no hours-long traffic to wipe out every moment of hard-won rejuvenation.

We found what we were looking for in Sunol/Ohlone Regional Wilderness. We’ve been many times before, and it’s always a winner. Even though it’s a stone’s throw from Silicon Valley and the massively congested Highway 680, Sunol/Ohlone lives up to its wilderness moniker. Such intensely green hills!

This time we explored some new areas off of Welch Road. We didn’t see a soul–at least not of the human variety, but of course my cow-whisperer was his usual magnetic self:

On our way home, we checked out the new-to-us Vargas Plateau, at the base of Mission Peak in Fremont, overlooking the South/East Bay metropolis:

It was a little early for wildflowers, but there were definitely some great harbingers of the peak season to come:

And, of course, the Johnny Jump Ups have us jumping for joy on this first day of Spring!

Happy Groundhog Day: A Celebration of Same-Old, Same-Old

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I didn’t happen to have a groundhog on hand today, so I used my own shadow as a proxy to predict the future. As usual, results were mixed: Under sunny blue skies, I entered the grocery store to pick up some fruit, and emerged not three minutes later into a downpour. Shadow, then no shadow. So spring around the corner, or six more weeks of winter? Where I live, in northern California, winter and rain have become obsolete concepts, replaced by “God, how can we bear this 40-degree temperature?” and “atmospheric rivers.” So I guess today predicted Sprinter and Wing, and lots more of it. Which is not that surprising, since the daffodils are out while the creeks run high under cloudy and blue skies. Per usual.

Per usual is the point of why Groundhog Day is one of my favorite holidays, or at least one of my favorite movies. Nothing else quite captures how one day is much like another, on and on. Our routines are both deliriously comforting and maddeningly monotonous. A creature of habit, I quite like it that way.

Groundhog Day strategically falls right as January’s flush of new resolve–“This year, things will really change!”–gets flushed down the toilet. Who were we kidding? It feels good to burrow under the covers instead of rising early to write, and who wants to down a green energy drink instead of Ben & Jerry’s Cherry Garcia just when it’s getting to the perfect melty stage? Out with the new, in with the old.

Speaking of old, you may have heard there’s an election this year featuring two old guys who’ve both been president.

One’s a malignant narcissist who tried to overturn the last election and prefers an address of 1600 Pennsylvania Avenue over–Oh, let’s say–a prison cell. The other’s a decent guy who’s gotten a lot of good done despite massive obstruction, a stammer and stiff gait, and some questionable embraces that are not of the sexual-assault type favored by the first and former guy.

The election’s actually a do-over of 2020, only worse, which has a lot of people far more upset than the do-over Bill Murray faced day after day in Groundhog Day. Bill Murray’s plight had a Hollywood ending.

As for the ending of our Same-old, Same-old election contest in November? It all depends on voters whether we’ll be cast back into the shadows or emerge into the light.

The Cruelty of the Forced-Birth Movement

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This picture haunts me. It’s of Brittany Watts, a 34-year-old Black woman from Ohio, at a court hearing last month, where a judge ruled she could be tried for the felony charge of abusing a corpse after she miscarried. Such things have happened before, especially when the targets are poor or of color. But there’s no doubt that anti-choice fanaticism in the wake of Roe’s upending contributes mightily to this obscene persecution. Here’s the backstory to this picture of a woman caught in a nightmare.

On September 19, 2023, Ms. Watts had gone to the hospital because she appeared to be miscarrying 21 weeks into her pregnancy. Although doctors recommended inducing delivery of her non-viable fetus, she was kept waiting for 8 hours without treatment while the hospital ethics panel debated her fate. She returned the next day and again left without treatment. Soon after, she passed fetal tissue into the toilet, which clogged when she tried to flush. Upon returning to the hospital, a nurse called the police. In October, Ms. Watts was arrested and charged with a seldom-used law against abusing a corpse despite evidence that the fetus died in utero.

Imagine being denied treatment, miscarrying alone at home, then facing charges that could have resulted in a year’s imprisonment.

Fortunately, a grand jury recently ruled against proceeding with this persecution prosecution. The legal case may be over, but the anguish on Ms. Watts face speaks to the indelible horror of our post-Roe abortion landscape.

And this wasn’t even an abortion! But it did occur in the midst of Ohio’s ugly climate as forced-birth proponents in the state legislature tried (unsuccessfully) to severely restrict, even criminalize abortion. As Wendy A. Bach, a law professor at the University of Tennessee noted in the New York Times, “This is part of an ongoing and increasing trend to use the criminal law to punish reproductive health in this country. . . [Ms. Watts’s] punishment started the moment [the hospital’s ethics board] had to debate what to do with her rather than provide her with medical care.”

The cruelty is the point.

But it’s also backfiring. In state after state, voters of all political stripes are rejecting the wet dreams of Gilead. Abortion rights advocates have certainly capitalized on horror story after horror story of what the loss of Roe has meant: a 10-year-old Ohio girl who was raped being forced to seek an abortion in a neighboring state; her doctor facing egregious threats to her medical license, liberty, livelihood, and reputation; a mother and her pregnant teenager facing charges based on their Facebook messages; women like Texan Kate Cox who desperately want their babies but are unable to get the care they need when the pregnancy goes awry; ob-gyns leaving red states because it’s become impossible to deliver quality care without fear of prosecution in the legal morass of abortion bans.

These, of course, are the stories that generate sympathy and the will to fight back. My heart breaks for the hardships these people face, and I’m grateful to all who have come forward.

But even though the strategy of amplifying such stories has been highly effective at the ballot box, I’m also ambivalent about the hyper-focus on these relatively rare “sympathetic victim” cases. 

After all, the vast majority of those needing abortions don’t fall into this category. They shouldn’t have to. Failed birth control, no birth control, casual sex, awkward sex, great sex, acquiesced-to sex, immaturity, drunkenness, having other goals that don’t include childbirth are no less deserving reasons than a tragic turn in a wanted pregnancy or becoming pregnant through rape or incest. There are no categories of deserving or undeserving people when it comes to the decision of whether or when to bear a child. Everyone deserves the freedom to choose.

So come November, choose to overturn the cruelty of the forced-birth movement. Vote blue.

All the Light We Cannot See

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Candle in the dark

It’s a wonderful novel, a so-so Netflix adaptation, and an expression that captures the essence of this winter solstice season.

This longest night of the year caps off a year of much brutality: Ukraine; the Israeli-Hamas war; a world on fire; so many people hungry, unhoused, desperate; casualties mounting in our gun-obsessed culture; an extremist Republican Party that has enabled a man who should never have been President and is now a coin-flip’s chance away from ascending once again to the Oval Office even as he should be headed to prison. Personal and hidden sorrows that don’t ever make it into the headlines abound. It is sometimes hard to see any light.

And yet it is there: the millions who have not given up on peace and compassion, on seeing the humanity in the other. Those who know that despair is an enervating strategy, and who thus work—tirelessly or tiredly–for change. Hard work bearing fruit. The green fuzz emerging on the gray-brown hills as rains come to the parched earth. Babies and young children whose joy and urgent demands insist on life and laughter. A consoling casserole, an embrace.

The stillness and replenishment of these dark times yields to light. Hope is the light we cannot see.