365 True Things: 221/David

A couple of weeks ago I asked my friends on Facebook what they wanted to know about me (or about anything at all: I'm a good researcher!), to give me ideas for the remainder of this confounded experiment in perseverance. One friend said, "Tell us how you met David."

Today, coincidentally, the daughter of an old friend posted a photo of her dad and two other musician dudes from way way back—the mid- seventies, maybe San Francisco? One of the other musician dudes happened to be David.

So I figured that was my cue:

David and I met not long after this photo was taken, in Santa Monica. We were both going to UCLA—but we didn't meet there, or ever see each other there. We met at the apartment of a friend of his. His girlfriend at the time? His ex? I think she was moving, and I went with my then-ex Brian, who was in a band with David (a different band than this one), to help her/them move. Something like that.

(Clearly I need to quiz David on his memories of that momentous moment!)

We saw each other socially for a while, not paying each other any particular attention (in each of our minds, the other was taken, plus: neither of us was looking). We were always part of a group of friends who hung out and did things together, like go to concerts or to the beach or for hikes or what have you. But there was no romantic interest. We barely knew each other.

Then I graduated, spent a year working at UCLA; Brian and I went our separate ways, and I saw less and less of that crowd. And in 1977 I headed to Wisconsin to get my MS in cartography.

The left-hand dormer window on the
left was my view out over the world.

In late September 1978, I was at my desk in the top-floor grad office of Science Hall, getting ready to head to a class (education? psychology? TV production?) across campus. One of my colleagues poked his head around the corner, said, "You've got a phone call." What? No one ever called me at the office.

Turned out it was David. He was hitchhiking across the country, from Oregon to Tennessee to a family reunion, and had gotten a ride as far as Madison on I-90. He remembered that "Anne the blonde cartographer" was in Madison and thought he might be able to get a shower and a place on the floor, then head on the next day. I met him outside the student union; he had his big green Jansport backpack and a guitar case. I think we might have indulged in some ice cream (the union had the best ice cream), but maybe not.

Instead of spending just the night, he stayed a week. I ditched a lot of classes and we explored. One memorable excursion was to Devils Lake, where we climbed high in a tree. He thought it was pretty swell that I climbed trees. Little did he know I'd never do it again. (Well, not entirely true. But he's much more of a tree climber than I am.)

One evening, he cooked us up a big batch of chicken curry—a specialty of his. For the first time ever, he veggied it up with brussels sprouts, per my request. That has become something of a staple for us. It's very good.

After a week, off he went. We stayed in touch. He sent me sweet gifts: letters written on eucalyptus bark; a silkscreen Christmas card that featured my smile floating above snow-covered mountains; photos.

Once my coursework was done the next summer, I moved to San Diego, where he was living, working three days a week as a computer programmer. We got a place, got ourselves a kitty, Tisiphone. I worked at the San Diego History Research Center in Balboa Park (golly, I'd forgotten all about that until just now). Curiously, I remember very little about our two years in San Diego. It was just a pleasant time, living in a place that I gather has changed a lot over the years. But what place hasn't, right?

We lived there for two years, then, two years to the day after we moved in together, we got married—and I moved back to Los Angeles, while David moved to Berkeley, each of us to pursue our PhDs. Two years later (though not to the day), we got our own little place on Avila Street in El Cerrito. And . . . the rest is (still more) history.

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Here are the rest of the answers, just to keep them all in one place that doesn't scroll into the distant past:

Bucky B.: Tell us how you met David. Tell us about your interest in cartography. Tell us about your travels.

James C.: I'm interested in your commentary on the relevance and ramifications of the "Bush Robot" theory. [I will not be addressing that one, past my reply at the time: "I think a bush robot might be useful for house cleaning: getting behind the faucet, under the stove--all those hard-to-reach places."]

Sherilyn: What other jobs would you like to have other than the ones you've already had? What are your life's rituals, routines? [The short answer to the latter: I have none. Though I'd desperately like to have some. It's my life's quest, I guess.]

John M.: Write something about the parallel NEWS Universe. [Probably too political and ire-provoking for me, but it's an idea, for sure.]

Amanda B.: I would love to hear you answer the following question: what would your dream school be like? Like if we could revolutionize education, how would it look? [This one provoked a lengthy FB discussion, with both cynical and optimistic points of view. As to whether I'll tackle it? Probably not.... I'm so removed from that world of children and education. It is a very important question, though. I'd like to think I'm on the optimistic side . . .]

Thelma: I'd like to know about any books that have inspired your life and how.

Kate: Stories from college!

Rachel: Milo :-) [I'm holding him in reserve until the anniversary of our first meeting, January 4, 2011.]

Tamara: I'm curious about what exactly goes on at the recycling plant, but haven't had time to take a visit. [I'm curious too. I might mount a field trip.]

Rick: How about your dad and his discovery of the value of orange peels? Or is that a myth? [Myth. Though his work did involve bioflavonoids, which are found in oranges. I did write about him and his being a chemist a while back.]

Tamara again: Just write about balls! [My mind explodes every time I read that sentence.]

Sherilyn again: Kim said this the other day and I thought, "Hm!" "I know myself well enough to know..." Now that could be the piece or a stepping stone...your choice. Also, I am a sucker for ticking clock stories (personal essays or research pieces) and underdog stories.

Francesca: These are all prosaic—but I wouldn't mind hearing about your favorite wines—and wine tours if you have done them; your favorite camping sites (both car camping and backpacking); your favorite trails; the best countries you have visited; the cities you like in the US (or abroad).