As we leave

do we leave

a trail

for those

we leave

behind?

Storms & Politics

A major storm in the area yesterday, high winds and several inches of rain, some power outages.  The backyard and the driveway are littered with maple leaves, some wetly adhering to the concrete and will, if the sun comes out and does its thing, leave an imprint of the leaves thereon, in a sort of natural photographic process.  Probably caused by the leaves' tannin, is my guess.

The President addressed the nation from the Oval Office yesterday, and held a press conference today.  I watched both these events on television.  The man comes across as a sincere human being who has strongly-held beliefs, and the determination to see his programs through.  I may not agree with all his policy decisions, but in this time of war, I support him as I do our troops.  Let's hope that the new constitution in Iraq will bring the country's many divergent factions together in a new, secure, and peacefully effective government, so that our men and women in uniform will be able in short order to return to their loving families.  Let's hope also that the divergent, and often vitriolically partisan, views of our legislators can come together to attend to the needs of our own country in the non-partisan manner for which they were elected in the first place.

Christmas Shopping

I've never been one for shopping.  My wife, on the other hand, loves it.  For me it's a trial and usually a waste of time.  For her, it's pure pleasure.

I sometimes accompany her on these shopping trips.  Usually when I have nothing better to do, or when after my wandering aimlessly through the shopping mall for an hour or two, there is the prospect of our having a nice dinner at some nearby restaurant.

Christmastime brings on added challenges.  The big ones being the crowds, the search for parking, the waiting in line at the cash register, and all the sound and the fury multiplied tenfold because it's holiday time and people are buying gifts at the last minute.

While my wife disappears into Nordstrom's, making sure that I have my cell phone turned on, I wander into a shop or two that might briefly engage my interest.  The first of these is a camera shop, where under normal circumstances I would be able to check out the latest digital megapixel marvels with extra-long optical zoom ranges, or to challenge the clerk on his mastery of electronic terminology and the gadget's operations.  

But there are dozens of prospective customers laying claim to his time, and it would not be fair to take up any of it unless I am intent on buying something. Which at the moment I am not.

Next stop is a bakery, to which I am attracted by the wonderful aromas, but here again the line is long, and the girls at the counter are so busy that it will be a while before they'll get around to my order, so I move on. I notice that at every food establishment in the mall, whether at the sprawling Food Court with its variety of mainstream American and ethnic food offerings, or at the many cookie, pretzel, and cinnamon bun shops sprinkled thoughout the complex, there are long lines of hungry young people.  Some quite overweight.

With Christmas less than a week away, it seems to me that everybody in the shopping mall is busy either buying or eating.  And every bench in the whole place is occupied.  People are seated on (or sometimes simply resting their bottoms against) every available surface.  The moment somebody vacates a seat on a bench, there is somebody else waiting to occupy it.  But I'm in luck.  Two older ladies leave a bench, having been found by a younger one, obviously the daughter of one of them. There is a brief verbal outburst that sounds like a scolding in a foreign tongue. They shuffle off, and I sit down.

This bench is located just in front of the main entrance of one of the mall's big 'anchor stores'. (I don't know if the term 'anchor store' is commonly understood, but it signifies a big name store that attracts a lot of customers, and so boosts mall traffic for the smaller stores as well.)  This one happens to be Macy's.

I like people-watching, and this spot is ideal for it.  With my MP3 player ear-buds in my ears, I settle in for at least a half hour of observing my fellow human beings as they go about their Christmas shopping, as I wait patiently for the expected call on my cell phone with the blessed news that my wife has completed her own.

Painting & Photos

Pictures from the Archive

House on Buena Vista Avenue

Old Oak Tree

Dis & Dat

Friday morning, and the gardener's leaf blower is the alarm clock for the neighborhood.  Good thing his lawn mower starts up on the first try.  The day is overcast and dull, and the outside temperature is around 50 degrees Fahrenheit.
.     .     .

The current issue of the New Yorker has a profile on our ambassador to Iraq, Zalmay Khalilzad, whom the writer of the piece, Jon Lee Anderson, refers to as the 'American Viceroy'.  Khalilzad, an Afghan-American, is a problem-solver in a very difficult and complicated part of the world. On the success of his mission in Iraq will depend the future stability of the country.

.     .     .

I'm fascinated by the bloggers whose postings are in the form of poetry.

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Books I'm currently reading: Bernard Lewis's "From Babel to Dragoman", "The Best American Essays 2005", Susan Orlean, Ed.

Signs of Hope

Another beautiful day in Northern California, and we trust that the skies over Iraq today were just as clear and beautiful, as the people there went to the polls by the millions to cast their ballots.  Thus far the news accounts have been good, with few reports of violent acts.  Sure, it'll take a while for the ballots to be counted, and there'll be the usual charges of wrongdoing by one faction or another, but that's to be expected in a country which has not seen free elections in decades, and this is the biggest one so far.

Let's hope the Iraqis will now have a stable government that's worthy of their nobility and their courage, and that the insurgency and the jihadists will fold its tents and quietly steal away, and most important, that conditions will allow the swift return of our brave men and women in uniform to come home and bask in the welcome of a grateful nation.

La Conchita

Reading has remained a favorite pastime of mine since early childhood.  I will read anything, whether they be nutrition labels on food containers or instruction manuals on household appliances.  Sometimes I even read the FBI warnings that come on the screen when I play a DVD.
  
But as a reader of fiction, I have generally favored the short story over the long novel.  At college, I took several courses in creative writing with the late Kay Boyle, whose own short stories I have admired, along with those of H.E.Bates, Jorge Luis Borges, and many others of that generation of writers from the middle of the last century.

When the New Yorker shows up in the mailbox, I first check the table of contents to see what is listed for the week's fiction offering.  (Only later do I read the magazine's coverage of the latest political revelation in Washington, or its investigation of the latest humanitarian crisis.)

In the December 12 issue, I am pleased to find T. Coraghessan Boyle's fast-paced short story "La Conchita", set against the disastrous mudslide on the Southern California coast last year. A wonderful read, it satisfies in a few pages all the elements of a good short story, with fine characterization, a clear point of view, a neat plot, and a very human message.

Photos

First Avenue, San Mateo
Sausalito
Long Island Railroad Tracks

Sanjuro

I saw the 1962 Akira Kurosawa classic "Sanjuro" again last night on DVD, for the first time in over 40 years. The humanity that the late director displayed in making this film shines through all that violent action and impressive swordplay.

Soon after its release in 1962 I took my mother to see "Sanjuro". My mother, who was 48 at the time, was a great fan of anything Japanese, and especially of samurai movies. We had seen Kurosawa's 'Yojimbo' previously, and we had both enjoyed it, but looking back now, I think we enjoyed 'Sanjuro' more.

The great Toshiro Mifune, who was then in his prime, again played the part of the ronin, or masterless samurai, and his action scenes were as perfectly choreographed as a ballet. But here he was to have a perfect foil in the Chamberlain's wife, played by Takako Irie, who provides a genteel counterpoint to the samurai's rough-and-ready manner. The humor in the movie derives largely from the brief scenes showing the interplay between the two.

It is well-known today that Sergio Leone and Clink Eastwood translated these Kurosawa classics to the American screen through the spaghetti Westerns which have also, in their own way, become classics of the genre. But with handguns instead of swords. In like manner, Kurosawa's "The Hidden Fortress" was later to become George Lucas's "Star Wars".

For my money, Kurosawa's originals trump their Hollywood or Italian copies by a country mile.

Hair

Someone said to me the other day that my grey hair gave me a 'distinguished' look.  I thanked her, of course.  It was very kind of her to offer this spontaneous judgment.  

On the other hand, a good friend who was older than I by a few years (sadly he passed away two years ago), once stood on a bench behind me, and felt free to comment on the bald spot I had been trying to conceal with careful combing.  I did not thank him, and instead met his remark with a look that was a few degrees short of friendly.  He had a full head of wiry, dark hair, very little grey.  

Let's face it.  Men are almost as conscious of their hair, or the lack of it, as women are about theirs, and the state of it.  We've all heard complaints, usually female and catty, about this or that female newscaster or celebrity having a 'bad hair day'. And what about the millions upon millions of dollars spent on visits to hairdressers and beauty salons, not to mention the sale of shampoos, conditioners, body-builders, softeners, coloring agents, and the like.  Hair is big business.

Strangely, I find that though I am losing some from the top, new hair will grow, and quite quickly, in other places.  Take my eyebrows, for instance.  It seems that all of a sudden my eyebrows are undergoing a growth spurt which is quite alarming.  I have not yet come close to an Andy Rooney look in the eyebrow department, but many of the hairs above my eyes are getting longer and thicker.  

Now, eyebrows are something that a man should never trim or pluck, as women so often do.  It is just not the macho thing to do.  Not only that, but cutting the ends off long eyebrows tend to make them spiky and unnatural.  So my advice is: leave them alone.  Let them grow to their heart's content.

Another kind of hair that in men becomes more pronounced with age is that which grows in nostrils and ears.  Those on the outside of the ears may be a solitary few that are easily trimmed away while shaving.  But the ones in the ear cavity are harder to reach, and a guy may have to borrow a woman's cuticle scissors to get at them — a dangerous practice at best.  Much better to get one of those little cylindrical battery-operated ear- and nose-hair trimmers that are so ubiquitous nowadays in drugstores and specialty gift shops.

These small gadgets can do the job easily on nose or ear hair in half the time it would take with the old scissors, and with less chance of damage or pain.  They are well worth the small investment.

Places I've Been

Here are some photos from our travels

Beach - Costa Rica

San Andreas Reservoir

Acapulco - Mexico

Aide-memoire

I've been thinking about getting one of those small pocketable voice recorders.  

During the course of a normal day, items come to mind that I would like to write down for future reference — these could be unfamiliar words that I come across in my reading and can't immediately check in the dictionary; interesting news bits that I pick up from the radio or television; sudden flashes of inspiration that may take time to check out.  That sort of thing.

The ol' memory is not what it used to be, of course.  (Whose is, anyway, at our age?)  So any little help, electronic or otherwise, will come in handy.  For years I kept a small pocket diary that doubled as an aide-memoire.  I still carry one around.  But the act of writing in it may be inconvenient at any given moment (while driving, for instance), and oftentimes to be seen writing something down in a notebook in public may raise some suspicious eyebrows.  Especially nowadays.

So a small voice recorder that has a built-in or replaceable memory capability may do the trick for me.  Nothing fancy, not a handheld computer, or a PDA, or a cell-phone with all sorts of extras.  Just a palm-sized gadget with a tiny microphone and simple on-off and playback controls will do.

The advantage of using such a gadget is that, since so many people seem to be talking to themselves these days on cell-phones with midget lapel mics, anyone making a voice recording in the manner described would not attract undue attention.

Now if there is a simple means to transfer the voice recording over to my home computer, that would be perfect.

Christmas Concert

The parking lot was beginning to fill with cars by the time we arrived.  Our older granddaughter was waiting for us just outside the high school auditorium.  Her long hair, made into in a cascade of coppery-red waves down her back, contrasted against the dark velvet jacket and flowing skirt that was the uniform for members of her choral group.  She greeted us with kisses, gave us our tickets and we went in.

I don't believe, for putting oneself into the right spirit for the Christmas season, that there is anything to rival a concert given by a crowd of enthusiastic and talented young people.

The school's music director, a tall, broad-shouldered, balding man in his early fifties, welcomed the people in the audience, which was made up of the families of the concert members along with their fellow students.  He asked that cell phones be rendered silent for the concert, and cautioned that the names of the cast should not be shouted out by over-enthusiastic friends in the audience.  He had a way of bowing low from the waist that suggested he was an athletic fellow, and a teacher who would brook no untoward behavior from students in his classes.

The lights dimmed, and from the darkness at the rear of the auditorium came a susurration, soft at first, then increasing in volume, as the long procession came down the side aisles.  The boys and girls held candles. They were intoning "Hodie Christus natus est" a cappella, as they made their way to the front, their faces lit from below only by the candles, which were actually small flashlights in candle form.

It seemed to me the concert participants made up a large part of the student body. Of the program's 12 pages, of which one was the cover and another was blank, three-fourths were filled with the names of the several choirs, the concert band, the orchestra, the wind ensemble, and the percussion ensemble. There were over two hundred students listed on the program.  Just the time for each choir or musical ensemble to march on and off the stage in orderly fashion took many minutes.

They were very good, these kids.  Not outstanding, at least not yet, but very good.  There were no sour or missed notes that I could detect (not any these old ears would have picked up anyway) and what they may have lacked in polish, they made up for in grace and panache.

These young people are focussed and hardworking, and so committed to doing well, that they and their teachers have consistently placed their school among the top-ranked in the state, and even in the country.  

A respected music teacher was unable to be there, having had a serious illness from which she is recovering, and she was remembered in the course of the evening by her students.  A young substitute music teacher, brought in on short notice to take her place, quickly earned the kids' respect and loyalty, and succeeded in having them turn in a fine performance.

Besides the familiar Christmas songs and carols, there were songs celebrating Hanukkah, modern concert pieces, several talented soloists, and even a bit of kidding around.

The finale offered the "Hallelujah Chorus" from Handel's Messiah, with the audience being asked to stand and join in, as tradition allowed.

A wonderful evening, and we have our two lovely granddaughters to thank for inviting us to it.

Images in the Shade

The Luncheon

Today I attended a Christmas (read holiday) luncheon organized by a dedicated group of people with whom I used to work, an event arranged for their retired former colleagues as well as for some who were still working.  They gathered in a restaurant located beside a boat marina right on San Francisco Bay, with a matchless view of the city. The planning as in prior years was flawless, the food wholesome if not inspired, and the company convivial. The master of ceremonies was a man who had for some years performed this office with good humor and a fine sense of timing.  He has lost none of his sparkle and his banter was much enjoyed by the crowd.

At our table were weathered old comrades who shared reminiscences of their working careers in various parts of Latin America, and who now, while still able, have been going on cruises and guided tours to distant corners of the world.  And most were happy to tell of their travel and career experiences, some of which proved to be quite hair-raising on account of close calls in some tight spots.

Many of the retirees brought their spouses along to the luncheon, and several of the ladies won prizes in the lucky draw, as did their menfolk. The prizes bore the corporate logo to emphasize the company's continuing connection to and solidarity with its retirees

The cocktail hour before lunch gave the attendees an opportunity to greet and chat with one another, as they circulated in a way that is customary at such parties, to try and say hello to as many people as they could in the short time they had.  It struck me that the shared experiences through their having been a part of the same giant corporation bound these men and women together in a way that one is not likely to see among younger workers today.  And perhaps may never see again after this generation passes on.

Halifax

Today is the 88th anniversary of the Halifax Explosion, a great tragedy which leveled part of this great port city of Nova Scotia, Canada in 1917.

In 2002 we took a bus tour of the Canadian Maritime Provinces with some friends. Among the places we visited was the city of Halifax. Its Maritime Museum contains some of the most moving photographic images of that disaster, along with others relating to the sinking of the R.M.S. "Titanic" in 1912.

The photo above is of the grave of one of the young victims from the "Titanic". Many other victims of that catastrophe were also laid to rest in the Halifax cemetery.

IHOP

It is invigorating to rise early on a luminous winter's morning and go about one's business — in this case a business as mundane as taking the car in for service. Yes, the freeway is clogged with workaday traffic, but the air is so clear you can hardly imagine any contaminants hanging about, since there's nothing disagreeable that's visible to the naked eye.

What we find attractive are the long shadows of wintertime, the shards of sunlight dancing on automobile chrome, the serene purple outlines of the distant hills, the cerulean blue overhead.

We have breakfast at the International House of Pancakes — the senior special. Decent coffee, crisp strips of bacon, hash brown potatoes, and toast. The menu tells us that the eggs are 'farm fresh', the hash browns 'golden'. Other clichéd coffee-shop sobriquets liven up the menu — 'garden fresh salad', 'cooked to perfection', 'fresh-squeezed'.

So what if they are overused, these restaurant terms. Who cares? The day is fine. The young Asian girl who serves us is gracious and attentive. We eat our breakfast and so we are ready for whatever the day has to offer.

You Must Remember This

Amazing how quickly the weeks and months go by — this is of course a nod in the direction of this blog's theme — as we approach the end of another year. In a few days I shall be attending a holiday luncheon (for thus it was announced) of various departments and units of the corporation where I used to work for more than twenty years. And, incidentally, from which I took early retirement a great many years ago.

Times change, people change, and corporations change. As do countries, philosophies, cultures, civilizations. There is a melancholy about it all that one senses at such gatherings at Christmas time. And, oh yes, this is an old line corporation where in the old days the luncheon would have been paid for from the corporate treasury and the greetings would have been "Merry Christmas", but today in keeping with the strictures of political correctness and keeping costs in check, one has to pay one's own way, and will more likely to be greeted with "Happy holidays". Ah, well, sic transit gloria mundi.

The friends I shall be meeting at the 'holiday luncheon' will be fewer and older, but they will be joined again this year by active employees, younger people who will give the gathering a smart new face. I shall be at table with several other retired persons, and perhaps one of the younger people to keep us company. We will sample our prime rib or salmon and chat about the old days, about the cruises we have taken, or the hobbies we now have time to pursue. We may ask about each other's families, children, and children's children. Politely we refrain from health and medical topics, unless it is to be about the new Medicare Part D provisions and how they may affect the coverage the corporation offers.

There will be speeches, some remembrances of departed members, a few jokes, genial applause. And then we will all go home.

P.C. & Tech Support

The weather has turned cold, though the days are once again graced with sunshine.  We motored to Palo Alto in the afternoon for shopping.  Christmas shopping.

How quickly Christmas returns, and what a furor in the media appertaining to the 'political correctness' of abandoning any reference to the Christian holiday.  Secular and humanistic though I am, I can see nothing in the least offensive about the use of 'Christmas', a term so deeply embedded in our history and culture that any mandatory removal of it, in response to the questionable agendas of those advocating its obliteration, seems absurd.  If it ain't broke, I say, don't fix it.  There are many other things that need to be fixed, not the least of which are our porous borders, and the sad state of the educational system in our country.

*          *          *          *          *

Technical support.  Time was when, after acquiring a new computer or peripheral hardware or software, you found you needed technical help, the toll-free number you called would get you a resident of these United States.  Not so today.  Chances are that a response from a vendor to your plea for technical help, whether on the phone or through online chat, would come from someone located in South Asia.  The same is true in the case of calls regarding non-computer issues, such as with medical billings, appliance warranties, and the like. So not only have U.S. manufacturing jobs taken a big, big hit through outsourcing to foreign countries, it's becoming clear that more and more of our service jobs are headed overseas.

Are the skills there?  To be honest about it, my experience has been that it's a mixed bag. You may occasionally get a guy or gal in India or Bangladesh who is reasonably competent, both in the English language and in technical savvy.  Or you may get someone who is deficient in both areas, which would almost certainly lead to much frustration.  Would a techie in the U.S. do better?  Again, it's a mixed bag, but the odds are in favor of his or her having better language skills to address the issue at hand.  

Now, whether a bored guy sitting in front of a computer on the graveyard shift in Bangalore, India or Bangor, Maine, will correct whatever your problem might be in the course of a five-minute conversation, after you have waited twenty-three minutes 'for the next available technical representative because your call is important to us' while listening to loopy Muzak is a question you may want to pose to the Intelligent Designer Somewhere Out There.

Iraq

In my more-or-less regular submissions to this online journal I have tried hard to refrain from commenting on the Iraq war.  I had supported the invasion, had thought that Saddam posed a great danger to the region and the world, had believed that he was capable, as he had shown in the past, of using chemical and biological weapons without compunction, whether on his own people or on his neighbors, and that he was for years sidestepping the many U.N. sanctions imposed on his murderous regime.

But now the more than two thousand American lives lost, not to mention the score of thousands more wounded or disfigured, some very terribly, has made me question the terrible cost of the war.  Yesterday ten young Marines died in one of the worst single roadside bombing tragedies in months.  Young men with families whose grief I cannot bear to imagine.

Is our President right in maintaining his unshakable position on staying the course?  Are our military brass sharing with him the true sentiments of the kids on the front line, if they know? Are the opinion polls reliable?  Is the so-called mainstream media politically skewed leftward as some pundits claim?  Who are the pundits anyhow, and how did they come to acquire this 'exalted' status?  Do they have sons and daughters in harm's way? What is their agenda, or that of those on the other side of the debate?

I have many questions, as I know many other Americans do.  And there are such deep divisions in the country, political, social, and ideological, that we can only keep wondering, and hoping.

After the storm

Friday dawned clear and bright with a scattering of clouds, and with visibility of better than twenty miles.  From where I stood in the San Mateo hills I could see clear across the Bay towards Mount Diablo beyond the eastern shore.  If the East Bay hills were not there to obstruct the view, I imagine it might have been possible to see all the way over to the Livermore Valley.  

And all this brilliance after Thursday's heavy rains and strong winds that caused minor power outages in the area.  At our house the loss of power was mercifully brief, just enough to keep me away from the computer for a time.

A walk up the hill led past an aromatic carpet of eucalyptus leaves, and bark strewn like giant slivers of cinnamon across the roadway.  The fifty-foot stands of eucalyptus at the top of the hill displayed naked trunks piled with torn bark at the base.  The clear morning air was filled with the mediciny fragrances of the post-storm debris: eucalyptus leaves and pine needles still wet in places.

I greeted the lady who lives a few doors down the street, and who also takes daily walks, rain or shine.  She is in her eighties, and admirably fit, making the uphill climb with small quick steps. Sometimes she carries a hiker's staff, but not today.