Monday, August 11, 2025

Book Report: So Far Gone

17. Jess Walter, So Far Gone (2025) (8/11/25)

I have read a few of Jess Walter's ten books—Beautiful Ruins, The Financial Lives of Poets, Over Tumbled Graves—and enjoyed them. This one was no exception.

It's the story of Rhys Kinnick, in his early sixties, who seven years ago, after punching his Christian nationalist son-in-law, Shane, at a family Thanksgiving get-together, moved to an isolated, run-down piece of property that was in the family, and went off-grid. Now, a woman shows up on his porch with two children, 8 and 13, whom it takes a moment for him to recognize: his grandchildren, Asher and Leah. That morning their mother, Rhys's daughter, Bethany, pointed Leah to a note tucked in a snowboot, then took off. The note directed their neighbor to bring the kids to Rhys. But Shane is still around, and he's none too happy about this—either his wife's taking off or the fact that she sent the kids to her father. Events ensue, which involve a militarized religious compound in Idaho known as the Rampart, a psychedelic music festival in British Columbia—as well as some philosophy and current events and lots of driving. The chapters are all titled some variation on "What Happened to . . .": first Kinnick himself; then Lucy, an old flame of his from the newspaper they both once worked at; Chuck, an ex-cop; Bethany, then Leah, then Asher each get a brief chapter; and Brian, a Native American friend of Rhys's (they manage to patch up an old rift). It's a clever way of weaving various stories and memories together as Kinnick sets about rescuing his family. 

At the center of the story, perhaps, is love, and how to stay present and true to the people you care about. In the end, Rhys (literally) limps back into his daughter's, and grandchildren's, lives—back into the world. 

I flagged a couple of passages, which don't give a sense of Walter's strong way with character, with dialogue, with quirky details. But they point to a philosophical underpinning that I appreciated.

How to explain self-exile? Part of it had been the fight with Shane. And Bethany's reaction. It symbolized the dark, sour turn the whole country had taken. As a journalist, as an American, as a rationalist, Kinnick had come to terms with the fact that 20 percent of his countrymen were greedy assholes. But then, in 2016, the greedy assholes joined with the idiot assholes and the paranoid assholes in what turned out to be an unbeatable constituency, Kinnick realizing that the asshole ceiling was much higher than he'd thought, perhaps half the country. Whatever the number, it was more than he could bear. Especially when they were in his own family.
     But, if he was being honest, it wasn't those people, his fellow Americans, many of whom had probably always been as distracted or as scared or as cynical as they revealed themselves to be by electing a ridiculous racist con man. No, they weren't really the problem. Most of them probably just wanted lower taxes, or liked bad television, or, like Shane, had fallen into the fake-Christian faux-conservative Nationalist cesspool; or maybe they were just burned-out and believed that corruption had rotted everything, that one party was as bad as the next; or maybe they really did long for some nonexistent past.
     Whatever their motivation, for Kinnick, it was all just part of a long sad cultural slide that he'd had the misfortune of witnessing firsthand (celebrity entertainment bleeding into government, cable TV eroding newspapers, information collapsing into a huge Internet-size black hole of bad ideas, bald-faced lies, and bullshit, until the literal worst person in American got elected president). There was inside of Kinnick an emptiness that felt like depression. [. . .]
     No, it was he who had failed, he who couldn't adjust, he who couldn't deal with this banal, brutal idiocracy, he who couldn't admit that this was the world now. And so . . . he'd stepped aside. Moved to the last sliver of land once owned by his wannabe sheep-rancher grandfather. But once he began withdrawing, erasing himself, he couldn't stop. Until now, when Kinnick saw that he'd been living entirely in his own head for a year now, and had inexplicably reached a place where he didn't even recognize his own grandchildren.

There's also a good disquisition on the evils of smartphones, but I'll just end with a "cold epiphany" Kinnick has in the final pages of the book (which his newly acquired phone reminds him of):

All cruelty springs from weakness. Seneca said that, along with: Ignorance is the cause of fear. Kinnick had always believed these adages to be true, but now [. . .] Rhys wondered if Seneca might have been a little silly to believe in the causal roots of evil. He wondered if cruelty and its bride, fear, didn't just exist spontaneously, forces as elemental and eternal as gravity.

But as a contrast to these forces, he also rediscovers love and devotion and begins to seek forgiveness and connection, even amidst the pain and struggle of living. 


Sunday, August 10, 2025

41. Frivolity

This week we took a little break from Monterey County and headed south to our neighbor county of San Luis Obispo—a 44th anniversary getaway. The dog came too. We stayed in the seaside town of Cambria. And we geocached (which is what I mean by this post's title: geocaching is our frivolous pleasure). Here are some pictures I took.

Breakfast on Main Street

The beautiful coastline

A boardwalk walk

Tbere are many benches in Fiscalini Ranch Preserve—
and some of them (like this one) harbor geocaches

A fun cache at the amazing Cambria Nursery & Florists

One isn't usually invited to just go
opening random chests

Heading east on Hwy 46—beautiful California

One of a half dozen "Monster" caches
we found on our way home (there are
more than 60 altogether: we'll have to
come back!). This one was The Werewolf.

The clue to open the combination lock
was a shaggy dog—or rather, horse, monkey,
and bicycle—story. Super fun. And once
we got inside, we discovered the silver bullet
that would protect us from the werewolf.

Another in the Monster series: this one
a rather winsome jackalope, in the 
Paso Robles Public Library.

The Grim Reaper (the cache is tucked
into the upper upright)

Official Geocache

Though you wouldn't know it from the
signage...

Another chest!

As David signs the log

San Miguel Fire Station: the cache is
the "lantern" in the dalmatian's jaws

Finally, the cache unscrewed from the
bottom of the antenna

Here it is

And here's the view from the cache location

We had a fine time caching. We also got to have dinner with some good friends who live in Morro Bay. And it was just nice to have a change of scene. Win win win!

Saturday, August 9, 2025

38. Nyckelharpa

(This post is out of order because I intended to write it several weeks ago but I got distracted.)

The other week we went to the Carmel Bach Festival to hear the program put together by violinist Edwin Huizinga, "Nordic Folklore." It featured (most prominently) Edwin, his Fire & Grace partner, Bill Coulter, on guitar, and a third player—let's call him Joy: Fire, Grace & Joy—Olov Johansson, on nyckelharpa. 

As the printed program describes it: 

The nyckelharpa, often called the "keyed fiddle," is a traditional Swedish instrument with a history that stretches back over 600 years. Its name comes from the Swedish words nyckel (key) and harpa (an old term for stringed instruments). Played with a short bow and operated by pressing keys that change the pitch of the strings, the nyckelharpa produces a haunting, resonant tone enriched by sympathetic strings that vibrate along with the melody—much like a viola d'amore or a Hardanger fiddle.

The earliest known image of the nyckelharpa appears in a 14th-century church carving in Gotland, Sweden, and written references begin to appear around the same time. Throughout the Middle Ages and Renaissance, various forms of keyed fiddles were played in different parts of Europe. However, it was in Sweden—particularly in the Uppland region north of Stockholm—that the instrument evolved and survived into the modern era.

By the 17th century, the nyckelharpa had taken on a more recognizable form, but its popularity declined in the 18th and 19th centuries as new musical tastes and instruments took hold. It wasn't until the 20th century, through the efforts of folk musicians and instrument makers like August Bohlin and Eric Sahlström, that the nyckelharpa experienced a revival. Modern versions of the instrument—typically with 16 strings (3 melody, 1 drone, and 12 sympathetic)—are now used in a variety of musical styles, from Swedish folk to early music and contemporary classical compositions.

Today, the nyckelharpa is experiencing a true revival, both in Sweden and abroad. Among those who took up Salhström's mantle is Olov Johansson, considered by many to be the finest living practitioner of the nyckelharpa. 

Here are a few videos about and featuring the nyckelharpa. Starting with a basic introduction to the instrument:


And here the nyckelharpa and violin are compared:


Finally, here is Olov, playing a very short polska (polonaise) that he wrote (he loves polskas):


And as it turns out, I have known Olov's playing for years—with the Swedish folk group Väsen, of which I have several (of their 18) recordings. Here is a Tiny Desk Concert they performed a few years ago:


It was delightful to meet Olov in person, and to experience his Joy. 


Sunday, August 3, 2025

Book Report: I See You've Called in Dead

16. John Kenney, I See You've Called in Dead (2025) (8/2/25)

After the last book—which continues to stick with me, so perhaps I liked it better than I thought (if "like" is the operative word)—I needed something light. A FB friend, in her daily status post, had mentioned this book, said it was delightful. Sold!

It's the story of a lost-his-way obituary writer who accidentally one drunken night publishes a mock obit—for himself: "Bud Stanley, forty-four, former Mr. Universe, failed porn star, and mediocre obituary writer, is dead." His employer, the largest wire service news organization in the world, is not amused.  

From there the story doesn't really do much, except meander through New York City with, mostly, Bud's landlord, a paraplegic named Tim, and Clara, a woman he encounters at his ex-mother-in-law's funeral and whom he starts meeting at other funerals, of strangers. He has conversations with his boss, Howard, and a young neighbor boy, Leo. And he waits for word on whether he will be fired—and if so, what then? He's hardly employable.

It's a bit of sentimental fluff, really—but it was just what I needed. Nothing heavy; on the contrary, Kenney (who writes regularly for the New Yorker's "Shouts & Murmurs" humor column) is very funny and gives the self-deprecating Bud some great lines. The other characters are mostly foils, helping Bud to find the joy in life again. (Clara, perhaps, especially: yes, they fall in love—though at the end of the book she's off to Bhutan for a year; still, you know they'll come together again. Love is love.)

The passages I flagged, though, weren't the funny bits, but the "Life is a gift" bits of wisdom. Schmaltzy, maybe. But no less important for all that. I flagged six. I'll just go ahead and quote them here, though I'll start with a one-liner, the last thing I flagged: "How many days do you experience something for the first time?" The occasion being a helicopter ride that Bud has gifted to Tim. "We banked right over the Bronx, over Yankee Stadium, to the East River. The city small and quiet below. We should be required to take flight from time to time, to see anew, to see how small and fragile we are."

But let's go back to the beginning—straight to the set-up for Bud's disaster:

I took down a bottle of sixteen-year-old Lagavulin from a shelf in the kitchen. My boss, Howard, gave it to me at our company Christmas party a few years ago.
     On occasion—a damp, cold evening, the house too quiet—I pour myself a glass, give it a gentle swirl, inhale the heady, fiery aroma, and imagine my ancestors in Ireland a long time ago, in a cottage, by a peat fire, rough hands, so tired, so much labor, wondering, perhaps, if there was something else out there, a better life, if they had the courage to find it, knowing they would, that they had to, that they owed it to themselves and their family, afraid, excited, eternally hopeful, dreaming of possibility for their children, their children's children, for me, this person sitting here now. Surely that was worth a toast.
     I sat on the couch with my computer and got lost, aimlessly clicking through cnn.com and tmz.com, nytimes.com. YouTube, Instagram, Facebook, the algorithms knowing my tastes, pulling me in deeper, mindlessly following every new link. A Nick Drake video, a Stephen Fry talk, a Fry & Laurie skit, The Two Ronnies' "Fork Handles" skit, great catches in baseball, vintage wristwatches, yoga women of Malibu, Bill Maher, news anchor bloopers, a garbage truck that bursts into flames, Norman Mailer drunk on The Dick Cavett Show, squirrels dancing.
     The videos—half watch, click, half watch, skip ad, click—alternatingly intrigued and annoyed me, engaged me, sucked life from me. It was after eleven. Go to sleep, Bud. But Bud wasn't listening. Bud had pushed past tired into numbness, the brain buzz of too little sleep, the mistake of topping off his drink. What's the worst that could happen?

See, nothing deep here, but also something most of us can perhaps identify with. Not these specific details, perhaps, but our bad habit of seeking to escape, to entertain ourselves to death, to avoid what's right in front of us. Next up: a bit about Howard and their relationship:

Something happened after his wife's death, me being there, that drive to the hospital. I saw behind a door normally closed to others, these things in our personal lives that coworkers never know about. How well do we know a colleague? The ebb and flow of workdays, weeks, years. We might notice a new suit, a haircut, a bit of weight put on. We talk of work, a bit about life, we have drinks at office parties. But something changed in a way I couldn't quite explain. We had inched closer. How can you not, standing in the doorway of a hospital room as this man I had known for so long—this man I barely knew at all—wailed and sobbed over the body of his dead wife?
     I wondered how I could ever put that in an obituary. 

And here Bud and Howard meet up after the disastrous obit:

"The world changed," Howard said to his glass. "Broke in a way. I see things, read things, watch things, and I think . . . I don't understand that. The inanity, the vulgarity, the cruelty." He turned to look at me. "Is it just me, getting older?"
     "I think something has changed."
     "Something fundamental, perhaps. And so we retreat. Sure, we do our jobs, provide for our families. But then we seek cover. I subscribe to a channel on YouTube called Relaxing Mowing. It's speeded-up footage of people mowing their lawns, trimming their hedges. The world made clean and perfect. They put classical music over it. If someone described that to me five months ago, I would say that person was insane. Now, I love it. I watch these in bed at night. I watch videos of Fred Astaire and Cyd Charisse dancing. The elegance and grace. Where has that gone? Now we have twerking."

The book is full of details like this, of wisdom like this, of regret but also hope. Tim, too, is full of wisdom, earned from being in a wheelchair—a bit heavyhanded, okay, but still. Here, at their first meeting, when Bud comes to interview for an apartment to let in Tim's brownstone, Tim has just asked Bud if he's ever sat with someone as they died. Yeah, not your typical first encounter, and also heavyhanded, but still.

"It's quite something. Especially if they're ready . . . if  . . . if they lived. Do you know what I mean?"
     "Totally," I lied. "Sorry. I lied. I'm not sure I understand."
     He laughed. "I don't really know what I mean either. I guess I mean this. That at the end—and I've had the privilege to be in the room with a few people now, my parents, two friends—I think, and it's just a guess, but I think we let go of everything ad the true nature of experience falls over us. This . . . miracle that is existence. Which we layer with so much. With anxiety and fear and greed and smallness and what's next and hurry up and I've got a meeting and all the . . . stuff . . . that gets in the way. I'm not saying we should all go live like a monk. I'm saying that if you haven't lived the life you want, if you haven't loved life, then at the end, I think a deep and very sad regret comes over you. And if you have, if you've lived well . . . friends and family and . . . if you've lived . . . then just as true is the peace you feel. I've seen it. Does this make any sense or do I sound mad?"

No, not mad at all. And finally, here Tim and Bud are at the Frick Collection, looking at one of their two Vermeers, Officer and Laughing Girl. "Why is the girl laughing?" Tim asks. Bud says:

"It's a nervous laugh. He just made a bad joke, said something embarrassing."
     "Like what?"
     "He just showed her how he could burp the alphabet."
     "You don't deserve Vermeer. Look at the painting. Pretend you're not you. Let the picture speak to you. It wants to speak to you. It's speaking to you across hundreds of years. This is its power. It's trying to tell you something, a universal thing, a thing that has no boundary in time. Why is the girl laughing?"
     I stared at the painting. I waited. It seemed too obvious.
     "Because she's happy?" I said.
     Tim turned to me and smiled. "Yes."
     "That's it?"
     "What else is there?"



Saturday, August 2, 2025

40. Another day

Another Friday, and another session with my English-learning friend. Today we worked on a dozen simple fill-in-the-blank exercises. Well, "simple" if you happen to already speak the language. One involved the words cope cop cup. The sentence: The _______ couldn't _______ with the bug he saw in his _______. I mean, if you speak English already, it's a no-brainer. But the more we worked on these sentences, the harder even I started to find them. 

So I was delighted when one of the fill-in words was am. There is only one context you will ever use amI AM. Dammit. I am.

The last exercise included the word pen, which at first glance you would think would mean pluma, but in the case of this sentence, which also include pet and pep—a pet with too much pep needing to be put in a . . . —did not. I am a language person—I've studied, what, ten or more languages—and so I'm sure that if I were met with an exercise like this in any of those, I'd figure it out: it's a puzzle, a game. But my friend is not a language person. This is hard, it's challenging. And it's serious: she wants to stay in this country. She needs to speak the language.

But then she started laughing. She was having fun. It wasn't the sentences that she was finding fun, but our interaction, I think. Our connection, our friendship. As we parted she gave me a big hug. And out in the parking lot, she gave me an avocado. What more does a teacher need?

As I drove to our meeting, I noticed the parking lot near the local Russian Orthodox church filled with cars. As I drove home, I saw a hundred or more people spilling out onto the lawn, including a half dozen white-bearded men dressed in bright green chasubles wearing full-on crowns. All I find from googling is this: Престольный Праздник / Встреча Митрополита Николая: Parish Feast Day / Meeting Metropolitan Nikolai. This has nothing to do with my life, really, except that I noticed it: it's a part of the life of some of my neighbors, and that's meaningful. It was beautiful to see this crowd, and those bearded, crowned men in green.

In the afternoon, David and I headed to one of our favorite dog-walk spots, Carmel Meadows. We stopped awhile to watch the pelicans flomping their wings in the lagoon. (I took a short video, but it won't post, so here's a still shot.) The dog walks are getting shorter, but Milo, at almost 15, is still game. 

The way home ended up taking three times as long as it could/should have, but I'll spare the details. Road work; rush hour. Whatever. We got home.

And then had a lovely dinner at a new-to-us restaurant in the not-at-all-chic nextdoor town of Seaside, but the restaurant, Maligne, has made its way into the Michelin Guide, so we figured it was worth a try—and yeah. It was terrific. Halibut with corn and shishito peppers for me, pork belly and fancy rice for David, and a luscious peach and plum cobbler for dessert. The occasion: our 44th anniversary. 

We sure do hope to make it to 50. We'll see!

Finished the evening watching Tampopo. Delightful. 

What more can one ask of a day?  

 

Thursday, July 31, 2025

39. Two and a half Instagram six-packs

Catching up here since my last IG post in May. I don't actually curate my Instagram feed. I just occasionally look at IG, then think, maybe it's time to post something. And I scroll back through my photos, find a shot or two, and there: posted. So, here: a recap of the latest posts.

My desk, my pens. A California buckeye blossom. Luna.
A wolf eel model. A Salinas mural. Milo.

A frog in Ontario. The view from our niece Jess's farm,
also in Ontario. July 4 on Monterey Bay. The cats.
The day we paid off our mortgage, huzzah! woohoo!
Luna again (the REAL tiger).

David and our friend Alastair, geocaching in Los Gatos.
David and a lovely little gopher snake.
Our nephew Aaron flinging the frisbee in Ontario.

A snapshot (or fifteen) of my life. So totally random it's silly. But silly is good. What would we do without silly?

Tuesday, July 29, 2025

Book Report: Night Watch

15. Jayne Anne Phillips, Night Watch (2023) (7/29/25)

That this book won the Pulitzer Prize surprises me—though maybe it just underscores the fact that the Pulitzer isn't a prize I should follow.* 

Why does it surprise me? Because the book is something of a mess. It begins in 1874 with a trio of characters arriving at a "lunatic asylum," introduces a few more, and then abruptly, on page 45, shifts scene and time, going back ten years and introducing several new characters—staying in those stories for another eighty pages. Wait, what happened to the asylum? What are we supposed to pay attention to here? When we finally return to 1874 (and ultimately 1883, in an epilogue), the story's threads gradually begin to weave together, though some remain dangling even at the end, and the climax, where (almost) all secrets are revealed, is breathtakingly abrupt.  

And the writing. Sometimes I enjoyed its lyricism, the rendering of habits of speech, but it often was just too much. Like this, which ends part IV:
He will leave here when time affords and feel no anguish but absence. A blank pulsing thud of heartbeat is the only key he possesses, and it fits no lock. But he's intensely relieved. He thinks of a kite, struggling along the ground, suddenly catching the wind, with the string let out very quickly. He can hear the whistle of air and feel a sensation of buoyancy, as though he gains height over raucous green hills that resound with pleas of mercy.
Huh? Especially toward the end of the book—when I started seeking out published reviews  (am I the only one who doesn't get what's going on?)—the gush of language was just too much. 

But what, you ask, is this book about? It takes place in West Virginia during and after the Civil War. The initial trio, a man, woman, and 12-year-old girl, are seen arriving at the Trans-Allegheny Lunatic Asylum (which still exists as a National Historic Landmark, complete with ghost tours), and part I all takes place there as we learn about the asylum, its function, its personnel. The woman, Liza—now known as Miss Janet—and the girl, Liza's daughter but now known as her nurse, Liza Connolly, settle in, and Miss Janet begins to regain her strength. In part II we follow several characters, the grandmotherly Dearbhla, whose story takes us into her past, where we learn about Eliza and the boy Eliza fell in love with; the "Sharpshooter," who has taken the Union side and whom we see fighting in the war and getting gravely wounded, losing all memory of who he is; the backstory of the man in the initial trio, and how he entered the others' lives; and more. Part III brings us back to the asylum, as the story—all those threads—plays out. Or perhaps I should say, weave together. It's difficult to describe just what the plot is. The feeling I'm left with is more of having been smothered—or perhaps getting clobbered in the head and left for dead, like the Sharpshooter.

The chief physician of the asylum was a real person, and Phillips occasionally inserts a photo of the place that seems to be the basis for a surrounding description, and I appreciated that concreteness. 

All that said, there were some quite lovely passages, and the rather gothic nature of the story—a bad guy who is very bad, many potentially good actors who nevertheless remain ineffective, hidden gardens and stolen baubles, a fire and bloody murder, and in the last few pages, an interesting reveal—does draw you along. I guess I'm glad I read it. I also guess I wish it hadn't tried so hard.

*As opposed to what—the National Book Award (for which Night Watch was long-listed)? National Book Critics Circle Award? Booker Prize? Should I even care about book awards? Do they represent quality? I tend to think so, but as with so many awards, politics probably enters in as much as worthiness (not politics as in Washington politics, but... playing favorites, making up for past slights, celebrating the underdog, or diversity, etc.). (Here is a piece titled "Did the Pulitzer Prize Make a Mistake with Night Watch? A Pulitzer Prize Deep Dive," which addresses some of these issues.)

Wednesday, July 23, 2025

37. Plant families

Yesterday on FB, a friend posted this meme:


 To which he added, "There are many correct (& even more incorrect) answers."

He got a few responses:

Legumes and brassicas—or Fabaceae (Leguminosae, with 765 genera and nearly 20,000 species), aka beans, peas, chickpeas, and lentils, and Brassicaceae, the mustard family, including cabbage, broccoli, brussels sprouts, cauliflower, bok choy, Napa cabbage, and even turnips and radishes, not to mention the plant that canola oil comes from. Alfalfa is a legume, as are beautiful lupines: food for cows, food for the eyes. According to Wikipedia, "Legumes are a significant source of protein, dietary fibre, carbohydrates, and dietary minerals; for example, a 100 gram serving of cooked chickpeas contains 18 percent of the Daily Value (DV) for protein, 30 percent DV for dietary fiber, 43 percent DV for folate, and 52 percent DV for manganese." As for the Brassicas, despite there being some 330 genera and 3,700 species, the most important genus for us is arguably Brassica, of which some 40 different species adorn our dinner tables on a regular basis. 


Others suggested one of those two families plus Poaceae (or Graminae): the grains and grasses, with 780 genera and 12,000 species. Wiki again: "The Poaceae are the most economically important plant family, including staple foods from domesticated cereal crops such as maize, wheat, rice, oats, barley, and millet for people and as feed for meat-producing animals. They provide, through direct human consumption, just over one-half (51%) of all dietary energy; rice provides 20%, wheat supplies 20%, maize (corn) 5.5%, and other grains 6%. Some members of the Poaceae are used as building materials (bamboo, thatch, and straw); others can provide a source of biofuel, primarily via the conversion of maize to ethanol."

And finally Solanaceae, the nightshade family, with 2,700 species—by which we generally mean tomatoes and eggplants, potatoes and peppers, as well as tobacco if you are so inclined, and even the cheery petunia. 


One person responded, "Definitely not Euphorbiaceae," which gives us cassava and castor oil (which in turn gives us ricin), as well as Christmas-time poinsettia and lots of ornamental plants. But yeah, not so good for sustenance.

Me, I responded simply, "No." Not gonna choose. To which my friend commented, "The best answer I’ve heard is 'Apiaceae & Ranunculaceae…because such a life is not worth living.'" Apiaceae—the Umbellifers, which includes carrots, celery, and fennel, caraway, cilantro, and dill; and Ranunculaceae—delphinium, ranunculus, nigella, columbine, anemone. I think this response may have been more about beauty than edibility. Because yes, beauty matters too. 

Some sort of Umbellifer

Pasqueflower (Pulsatilla alpina) achene

Nigella arvensis seed follicle


Monday, July 21, 2025

36. Generations

I'm just going to think out loud a little bit here. From my own very restricted brain-space. 

I saw a reference today to all the harm people of my generation are doing to the planet because we keep denying climate change. 

Well, okay. But people I personally know aren't denying climate change. People know are installing solar panels and buying electric cars; they are deciding not to fly to farflung vacation spots because of carbon emissions; they're walking to the market to shop. No, no, of course not everybody I know. But enough people for me to say, seriously, is this a generational thing?

I see "boomers" attacked online for all the harm we've done to this country. I don't get it. For one thing, I'm not really seeing what GenXers and GenZers and Millennials, as a mass group, are doing for the country. I don't see young people out at the anti-Trump protests. (Not here in Monterey anyway. Maybe they're out en masse in bigger burgs. I hope so.)

All I really want to say here is, I really wonder how much of our woes are "generational." Yes, different people coming into the world are met with different challenges, and yes, perhaps the "boomers" had it relatively easy. I certainly had it easy compared to my parents, who were born before or during WWI, weathered the Great Depression, lived through WWII, and then got clobbered with the Vietnam War. 

And then there was the Civil Rights movement, which attempted to set things right in this country—and now we're seeing that it's not so easy... because of boomers? Or full-on bigotry.

What I mean to say here is, people are people. We, all of us, have various advantages and disadvantages as we enter the world. Yes, it seems to be harder to find good employment now than it did when I was coming up. But that's not "because of the boomers." It's economics—capitalism. It's the social milieu. It may be because of the billionaires, who knows? 

Workers have been devalued, owning things has been overvalued. Those that have, get more—and then leave it to their kids, who start out life entitled, privileged. 

Life is complicated. Centuries ago, most of us would have been living under some lord's domain. At least things are a bit better than that now. (I think?)

This "generations" thing is an invention of the late 20th century. It's another way of putting us into boxes. Race, check. Gender, check. Generation, check. We're all so different!

When really, shouldn't we be thinking of ourselves as all in this together? 

All human.

That said, "young people"—sure. "Old farts"—sure. Young people and old farts do see the world differently: it's a different world now than it was when I was young. It was a different world for my old-fart parents, too. Being young or old is itself objective: you can look at someone and it's obvious. It still doesn't mean that my take on how different the world is, or what that difference means, is the same as that of my 70-year-old neighbor down the street, who's as Republican as they come, listening to right-wing radio in his garage (we wave at each other in the afternoon, him sitting on his cushion-mediated hard wood chair, us walking our dog), flying his flag. We may be the same generation, but I identify more with our young-parent neighbors in the house behind us, who may be politically progressive, though I've never asked. 

As for climate change, whoever could be doing something to change our course—whatever generation—I don't see it happening. 

I don't see it happening.

Blame who you will.

Then again, maybe "blame" is not the best way forward.

P.S. I will say, maybe at least some of us "boomers" are in fact more outraged and traumatized by what the Trump administration is heaping on this country now than any other generation might be. Because we were educated to believe that this country was something great. Which it clearly is not anymore. And might I point out that those in Trump's inner circle are not, in fact, all boomers. Starting with Stephen Miller, who's all of 39. J. D. Vance is 40. What's wrong with that generation?

P.P.S. The cartoon here? It's definitely a fact that students today have it far, far harder than I did, so far as paying for an education goes. That should be addressed, and I hope one day very soon it will be. (Sure won't be during this administration, though.) As for Social Security, so far, since the 1930s, it's something most of us do: pay into a system, and trust we'll get to enjoy some of the benefits when our time comes. I wouldn't say anybody I know thinks that young people somehow owe it to us. If anything, the government owes it to us to keep the system running smoothly. Simply by lifting the cap on the SS tax, they could keep it solvent. The government—this government—just doesn't give a shit.


Tuesday, July 15, 2025

35. Ontario family reunion

Three years ago, many Canrights converged on a 100-some-acre farm in Ontario, Canada, up near Meaford on the shores of Georgian Bay, Lake Huron. Family reunion!

Last week, we did it again—a somewhat different assortment of people, but just as invigorating. Our superb hosts were Jess and John Zufferli—Jess being my husband's eldest brother's daughter (our niece), John her awesomely game husband. Hats off to the both of them for a wonderful time. 

We came from all over: two sets of us from central coast California; two sets from Washington state (Edmonds and Wenatchee); North Carolina; Atlanta; and Oslo, as in Norway (we are far-flung). Twenty-two of us in all, ranging in age from 13 to 78. Three generations.

The three remaining sibs:
David (the baby), Geoff, and Patty (the new eldest)

There should have been a couple from Cleveland, Ohio, but Jess's dad—David's big brother (formerly the eldest)—died in March, and his wife, Virge, wasn't up for the trip. We toasted them in their absence. There should also have been one or two from Texas—Jess's brother, David, and his wife, Jeannie—but they were traveled out from a recent trip to Japan. We missed them. 

I posted some photos on FB, which I link to here (click on the highlighted bits).  

Day 1 (Thursday): Arrival! We got to the farm around noon, after a red-eye flight, and had a delicious few hours on our own with Jess and John (and sweet Sadie the labradoodle). Also, a nap. Others started arriving in the evening, though the Washington contingent kept getting grounded in Cleveland—ironically enough. They finally reached us the next day.

The view from our window in the 165-year-old farm house

Day 2 (Friday): I took a morning walk on the loop through the fields and woods, which is where these pictures are from. Much of the day was spent hanging out, swimming, catching up, and waiting for the Cleveland folks to arrive. And when they did, David, Patty and I went for another loop walk!

Day 3 (Saturday): Today we all (but one) went on a hike through some lovely (if warm) woods, then for pizza, beer, and wine at Coffin Ridge Winery. After that we went various ways. David and I took the opportunity to do a little geocaching. We lost Kolya, Nicole, and Enon, who took off for Toronto to look around before heading in various directions.

And later on that evening, we played outdoors under a beautiful sky. Frisbee! Sparklers!

Day 4 (Sunday): Today’s hike took us through the woods to Inglis Falls, followed by a picnic and—for some (a couple of the Norwegians)—a visit to Walmart (not documented) while others ended the day with a visit to the lakeshore (Lake Huron’s Georgian Bay) (ditto). Beautiful day.

Yes, there was geocaching!

Day 5 (Monday): Departure day, beginning at 3 a.m. for the other central California contingent. The hubbub of connection and hugs, over and over, was beautiful. Our 7 p.m. flight was on time, and we were home to our Milo at just after midnight. 

What a great few days. I'm so glad to be part of this family.


Tuesday, July 8, 2025

34. Craig Childs, writer

I am totally copying a couple of things that the writer Craig Childs has posted on FB the past couple of days. Because I want to keep them around. 

The first is from last week. He is visiting his son in Japan now, and they are traveling around. I loved this evocative passage he wrote, which yes, does capture the out-of-body-ness that travel can evoke. (The photo is his; it accompanied this post.)

There’s a point while traveling where I’ve run out of ink in a couple pens and misplaced a couple more, a point of feeling foreign enough I’m embarrassed to be walking around mispronouncing words for water or thank you like I didn’t have enough to do at home already, where my will starts feeling doughy and I’m reading signs in a language that appears to be written by people from a planet with more than one sun and many moons, not like my own language that looks like it was fashioned by kindergartners. I start feeling lost, purposeless, sucking gooey tapioca balls through a straw while sitting next to a rotating desk fan in the back of a shop that feels like an oven. This, I think, is why some people don’t travel. You forget for a moment who you were, if you were anyone to begin with, a feeling that I try to remember to savor because it, too, is why I came. Then, a sudden rain both brightens and darkens the streets at the same time. The sun sets and windows light up. I find myself walking slowly along a narrow space between buildings and it feels like I’ve stepped into a different room inside a dream where my travel companion urges me to stop and look down an alley glowing from rain and once again I’m swimming in possibilities. Standing on a bridge over a river I’ve never heard of, I feel coolness for the first time all day. A heron lands at the water’s edge and stalks just like the herons stalk at home, only its plumage is unfamiliar, as if the artist who makes the world ran out of ink in one color and started again with another.

And this from today, in response to a bit of hate-mongering by hateful Ann Coulter (her exact words: "We didn't kill enough Indians"). Thank you, Craig, for your loving heart:

We are being clouded by hate. Every one of us needs to check ourselves. I think of lines from a Joy Harjo poem:

Each stone of jealousy, each stone
Of fear, greed, envy, and hatred, put out the light.
No one was without a stone in his or her hand.
There we were,
Right back where we had started.
We were bumping into each other
In the dark.

Words are flying these days that need to be renounced, not with hatred, but a flat out no, this is not how we go forward.

Hear, hear. 

I have only read one of Craig's many books, which I reported on here. That one was about flash floods, and deaths—nothing approaching the horrific event of this July 4 on the Guadalupe River in Texas. He conveys well the power of that water, its destructiveness. I need to read more of him.


Saturday, July 5, 2025

33. Quelea, with a bit of markhor thrown in

In my off-moments during the day, I sometimes turn to the phone and a quick game of Sudoku: the "hard" category—which isn't especially hard, though it requires a bit of focus. The app I use includes various contests: currently, a Daily Challenge, a First Try Challenge (which gets harder and harder—and believe me, the journey from "hard" to "expert" is no simple slide), and right now, an Independence Day "event." Also, always, an ongoing Tournament, which one enters simply by playing. 

Although I don't bother with any of these, I do sometimes check my (automatic) Tournament standing—because sure, I want to be a winner!—and get a little frisson of pleasure when I manage to make it (momentarily though it might be) into the top 10. Ten being as high as I've ever gotten, and then only on day 1, before the real players get going.

Rather winningly, all of us on the Tournament gameboard have monikers—the current top three being Busy Tiger, Fantastic Moth, and Unusual Moose. (What my moniker is, I have no clue: I'm simply identified as ME. But I hope it's something marvelous: Moonlit Mongoose perhaps, or Luminescent Flamingo.) Today when I checked, I was bemused by a couple of names in the top ten: Powerful Quelea and Alert Markhor (currently numbers 4 and 5). What are these creatures? 

Well, here I am to tell you (per Wikipedia):

Quelea /ˈkwiːliə/ is a genus of small passerine birds that belongs to the weaver family Ploceidae, confined to Africa. These are small-sized, sparrow- or finch-like gregarious birds, with bills adapted to eating seeds. Queleas may be nomadic over vast ranges. The red-billed quelea is said to be the most numerous bird species in the world. 

Until today, I'd never even heard of any kind of quelea, and turns out one of them is the most numerous bird species in the world? Well, knock me over with a (red-billed quelea) feather!

There are three species: the cardinal quelea (Quelea cardinalis), the red-headed quelea (Q. erythrops), and the red-billed quelea (Q. quelea). Though wouldn't you know it—its superabundance should be a clue—the last is a pest on small-grain cereal crops such as rice (corn being too big for its little beak) throughout Africa. Here they are in their abundance and beauty:



Okay, on to the markhor, aka Capra falconeri or "screw-horn goat," found mainly in Pakistan (of which it is the national animal), the Karakoram Range, parts of Afghanistan, and the Himalayas. It may be an ancestor of the domestic goat. Currently listed as near-endangered (its population was estimated at 5,800 in 2013), it has been aided by conservation efforts throughout its range; in 2024 the UN named May 24 as International Day of Markhor. It is featured in an Afghan puppetry tradition known as buz-baz

Every day, there's something new and amazing to learn about this world.