Going Backwards

From time to time I return to read some of my earlier postings on this blog. And am usually surprised, sometimes pleasantly, other times less so.

(I re-read the old stuff to keep from repeating myself.)

Despedida

In a short while he will be eighty-four years old. Up until a year or so ago he was still quite spry, enjoying his card games, an occasional fine meal, the companionship of friends. Even after diabetes resulted in the loss of several toes, he was still able to dance at parties. A slight man, always dapper, with a quick smile, and a twinkle in his eye, he has what is commonly called 'Old World' charm. The ladies recognize his courtly manner, a quality that distinguishes him from other men within his circle. He speaks well, does not mince words, and has an unjaundiced and slightly bemused view of the world and of his place in it. He is generous to a fault.

His family and friends are important to him. He enjoys their visits just as he used to enjoy chance meetings with them in the street or at someone's home. And there are many visitors to his bedside every day, a steady stream.

Recently he was diagnosed with terminal cancer. He accepts his fate with his trademark good humor, says he is quite prepared to leave this world, has no regrets. He is grateful for all that he has experienced in his life, for his family and his many friends. He will not miss the world that he is leaving, he says; what he will miss most is the companionship of those he will leave behind.

His philosophical view of his imminent passage from this life is colored not by sadness, but by his steadfast courage and a deep religious faith.

"Dear ..."

In earlier times, the accepted salutation when writing a letter, whether personal or business, began with the word "Dear". "Dear Sir or Madam", "Dear Emily", etc. If the addressee was a loved one, or a close relative, the word used could be "Dearest".

Then business letters became more impersonal, and, in a business world dominated by persons of the male gender, the salutation became "Gentlemen" instead of "Dear Sirs", (always assuming of course that the recipients met minimum requirements as such).

If you knew the addressee's name, you could use it, as in "Dear Mr X" or "Dear Mrs Y." For females in a business environment, still later, "Dear Ms Z" became the accepted norm, in which their marital status was not revealed.

Then came e-mail.

With this means of easy, instantaneous communication, the salutations seem to have changed. No more "Dear", which many considered too prissy, even for personal messages. So instead of "Dear", we now say "Hi" or "Hey", if indeed we say anything at all. Often there is no salutation, since the names of the sender and the recipient will be obvious in the heading, and we can get right down to business with the text in the so-called "body" of the message.

The computer has changed the whole culture of letter writing, and we oldtimers must go with the flow.

One thing I will not go along with, however, are the ridiculous little shortcuts, such as the letter "u" instead of the word "you", and the ampersand "&", and all the LOLs and BTWs and other acronyms that make electronic messages seem like a cryptographic maze.

Where, oh, where, are the belle-lettristes of today?

Takeoff

The airline people at the terminal announce that our flight has been delayed an hour beyond the scheduled departure time of 6:00PM. The reason: a backup of landings at our destination, brought on by a low ceiling (no elaboration forthcoming about this). In the waiting area, the passengers groan and roll their eyes. Some get up and head for the restrooms, for a snack, to get some reading material, or just to take a walk to dissipate their frustrations.

A half-hour passes, and there is another announcement. We brace ourselves for the worst, but no, there is a calling out of names of wait-listed passengers, who are asked to come to the front counter. It will be a full load on this plane.

We finally board at around 7 o'clock, in an orderly fashion according to the large printed number in the middle of the boarding pass. The airline's advertisement proudly mentions increased legroom on its flights. But for the extra few inches of space, the passenger would have had to pay a premium. Mercifully, today's flight is going to be a short one. We can bear the discomfort and save a few dollars.

The flight attendants go through their safety routine, and then the captain's voice comes over the address system — the air traffic controller has just informed him that the aircraft's departure will be delayed for another twenty minutes. The captain apologizes, though the delay is not of his making. He wants us to know that. He shuts down the engines.

The minutes tick by, and then the captain sounds happy to announce that we have been cleared for takeoff. Outside the little porthole, it is already dark. We taxi toward the end of the runway. There we wait for another flight to depart or arrive (we can't tell which is which), and then our plane moves forward slowly, as the three red lights on the grass verge to our left go out. We move past banks of blue lights. Now the plane makes a ninety-degree turn on the tarmac. Out the window we see the avenue of lights marking the length of the long black runway all the way until they converge like an inverted V thrusting into the night.

There is a loud braking noise as the plane shudders to a standstill, but only for a moment. Now the great engines are revved up to full takeoff power. The plane gathers speed, bumping a little over the slight unevenness of the runway.

You feel this urge, like a sudden desperate hunger, for this great shuddering machine to leave the ground, to rise, to lift off, as the darkened landscape slides by outside your window. When will we be airborne, you wonder? How many more feet of runway does it need to get off the ground? What hazards might there be ahead, unseen but imaginable, that could prevent this giant metal bird with its heavy burden of people, fuel, and luggage from overcoming the gravitational pull of the earth?

Then comes another thump, but with it there is an accompanying, and gratifying, sense of release, and you realize that the thump is nothing other than the sudden easing of the plane's massive weight from the hitherto heavily stressed and slender cushioning struts of the undercarriage. We are, finally, airborne.

Some moments later, a whining noise can be heard, as the plane heads upwards in a steep climb. The whine is followed by two more thumps as the undercarriage, with their multiple rubber tires, retracts into the bays beneath the fuselage.

The plane streaks ever upwards, at such an angle and at such a speed that you can feel your eardrums tightening, and then, reaching cruising altitude, a height greater than that of the earth's highest peak, it levels off, and the captain's voice comes over the intercom once again, announcing that though he has switched off the seat-belt sign, and passengers are now free to move about the cabin, they are asked to fasten the belts again whenever they are seated, as a precaution against unexpected air turbulence.

On this flight, no food, no movies, no earphones for music. Just a soft drink in a plastic tumbler, drunk quickly so that the flight attendants can collect the empties in time for the preparations for landing. No nuts (which are now verboten because a small handful of people out of the millions of air travelers may be allergic to them), and no pretzels, either. In short, there are no frills on this flight.

For reading material, if you have not brought any with you, there is always the seat-pocket safety instructions ("in the event of a landing on water, the seat cushion may be used as a flotation device").

San Diego Views

Eucalyptus and Palm

Side Street

Downtown Skyline

Office Building

Museum Family

Geisel Library, UC campus

Primavera

In the photos which I posted earlier today, there aren't any views of our typical California hills. That is, those rolling, bare and grassy hills within whose canyons and arroyos and gulches we find the sturdy live oaks and shrubs native to our Mediterranean climate. In the summertime, the grass is dry and yellow-brown from lack of water, making a stark contrast to the dark green of the vegetation in the ravines.

But in the spring, after the rains of winter, these hills offer shades of the most lovely green hues, varying across the landscape from dark olive-green, to pale viridian to verdigris to chartreuse to bluish-green. The landscape then becomes a challenge and a delight for painters.

And spring is not very far away.

The Bay Area after rain

It was such a glorious afternoon that I went out and took some pictures. While large sections of our country has been experiencing terrible blizzards and heavy snow, we lucky Californians have days like this to be grateful for.

Believe me, we are.

[Click on the pictures to enlarge them]

San Francisco's skyline can be seen in the distance, with the airport
in the middle.

Hillside homes on the Peninsula

The Bay

Lawn got a pretty good soaking last night from the welcome rain. Weather forecast however promises no more rain for the first part of the week, just some cloudy skies.

A busy weekend. Attended a meeting and enjoyed the dinner that followed it. Friends came over to the house later to chat.

Next weekend we will be going down to Southern California to visit our granddaughter in college. We'll spend a few days there, and she'll show us around. It promises to be fun.

How Much Red Can You Handle?

There it was, sitting on the road outside the taqueria, just waiting to have its picture taken. And I couldn't resist.

On Not Being Watchful Enough

Each morning I make myself a bowl of oatmeal in the microwave oven. A few tablespoonfuls of oatmeal, three-quarters of a cup of water, and a dash of salt (optional, says the instruction on the box).

Following the directions for timing and power level usually does not get the oatmeal to the desired consistency. On cold days like this, about another minute at full power may be needed. The extra sixty seconds are critical ones, for they demand your total and undivided attention. You may at a critical point have to jerk open the oven door to prevent the oatmeal from boiling over.

Well, I was not attentive this morning. When the buzzer went off, I found that the oatmeal had made a mess inside the oven. It also made a mess of the bowl, leaving a hot, mucilaginous encrustation all around it. Cleaning up required many squares of paper towels to dispose of the hot oatmeal, half of which lay outside the bowl. It had been like a miniature volcanic eruption in there, and it took a while for the magma-oatmeal to cool down enough to be touched.

Oatmeal is good for you, they say. Gives you your daily fiber requirements. Keeps you regular too. Only you have to pay close attention when you cook it the way I do. By failing to be watchful enough, I was saddled with many minutes of unpleasant extra work.

What is most annoying, though, is that this has happened before. And probably will again.

Departures and Arrivals

Over the past two days we attended separate memorial services — one for a departed friend, and another for the departed mother of a friend. Maybe it's the very cold weather we have been experiencing and the way people dress because of it, but somehow funeral services seem to take on a more somber aspect in February. Even without the rain.

We're into the second month of the year, and in a couple of weeks it will be the first day of the Lunar New Year, which is an important date for much of the population on this planet, especially those of Chinese ancestry. There will be many festive gatherings, and we were invited to an early one last night. Many friends. Much laughter. Great fun.

And so it goes. Sad farewells in the forenoon, and happy affairs in the evening. Would that there were fewer of the former.

* * * * *

I've just begun to read Vikram Chandra's massive "Sacred Games" review here, a real page-turner of a crime story plus social and cultural study about the largest city on the Indian subcontinent.

Just finished "Empires of the Word" by Nicholas Ostler review here, a delightful history for anyone interested in languages and how they spread, adapt, and in some cases, become extinct. The author is a gifted linguist with a flair for telling a great story.