We didn’t name him, but we loved him, a robust cat-about-town who once lived a few houses over. He has been part of our family for nearly 14 years.
Mouse loved his treats, and once plumped up to 18 pounds. He used to follow us around the block on our evening walks, and unlike most cats, he loved—and at times demanded—that I pick him up. I happily obliged.
Mike jokingly called him my “white haired gentleman.”
To love a cat is to pretend they’ll go on forever. You park science at the curb and love them with your whole heart.
In May, rapid weight loss and slowed eating led to a series of tests. My once plump boy was frail.
After our last visit to the Cat Hospital, our treasured vet sent us home, assuring me that Mousy was weak but not in pain, and it would be okay for him to die at home.
My sweet boy spent the last two weeks on a blanket in our closet, accepting small servings of Churu treats, licked from my fingers, before putting his head down to rest. It’s been a long and sad goodbye.
Last weekend, we celebrated our 29th anniversary in the charming town of Los Gatos. Let me tell you, if you’re looking for a night to eat out in this community, Sunday is it.
On Saturdays, the streets fill with young people, families with strollers, and pedestrians walking dogs, but by Sunday evening, most of the shops are closed. We had a terrific time. This time last year, we were in Italy, something that’s hard to top, but we enjoyed dining at a new-to-us family-owned Italian restaurant recommended by my friend Mary.
The Italian Brothers are relatively new to the area. It’s completely staffed and operated by a family from Sicily. You can read their story on the linked website.
Mike, My favorite Italian, outside of the restaurant
After a tasty meal of Caprese, bruschetta, pasta, and dessert, we walked around the downtown area, enjoying what I’ve always loved about Los Gatos: flowers and plants in shop doorways, redwood trees in unexpected places, interesting shop windows, and sandwich boards announcing wares along the sidewalks. The town is full of charm.
We also had our first kiss over thirty years ago in Los Gatos. I remember it clearly
“Los Gatos is one of Santa Clara County’s oldest communities. In 1840, the Mexican government granted a land patent for a 6,600-acre rancho to Sebastian Peralta and Jose Hernandez. Los Gatos was originally named La Rinconada de Los Gatos (Cat’s Corner) by early settlers due to the screams of mountain lions prowling in the night. In 1868, 100 acres of the rancho was selected as a town site. The town was incorporated in 1887, and by 1890, the town’s population had grown to 1,652. When the first General Plan was adopted in 1963, the town had grown to an area of approximately 4,000 acres, or 6.3 square miles, with a population in excess of 11,750.
At the time the first General Plan was revised in 1971, the town had grown to an area of 9 square miles with a population of 24,350. In 1984, Los Gatos covered approximately 10 square miles and had a population of 27,820 persons. Today, the Town population is estimated to be 33,529 in a 14 square-mile area. While most of the growth through the 1970s was due to new development, most of the growth in the 1980s and 1990s was due to annexations, in-fill development, and changing demographics.”
It’s fun posing for pictures among the local landmarks. It’s also funny to note the imports (like the famous red telephone box designed by Sir Giles Gilbert Scott, a well-known British architect)
and this Victorian-era house, not imported per se, but the last one standing on the boulevard.
The house was built as a home in 1891, then sold to Alexander Place, which operated a funeral home in the Queen Anne mansion until 1971.
Several restaurants followed, with some locals refusing to eat there fearing the haunted house rumours. The mansion recently reopened as “Gardenia: a French Asian fusion coffee shop and cuisine,” since I don’t believe in ghosts, we will happily give it a go.
You’ll never guess what we spotted as we made our way back to the car: Gardenia had a wine barrel along the walkway stamped Wente Brothers.
Mike and I were married at Wente Brother’s in Livermore, 29 years ago.
I performed the Heimlich Maneuver on an unhoused woman earlier this year as she choked on a chicken burrito. She thinks I saved her life, and perhaps I did; however, as years go, this barely made my top ten. I am so ready to leave 2022 behind.
While nothing magical happens between December 31 and January 1, it feels like a fresh start.
I’ve watched helplessly as someone near and dear suffered through treatment-resistant depression most of the year. The constant worry and the overwhelming sadness never goes away.
My younger sister made multiple trips to the ER. She suffered three falls over eight months while trying to get out of bed and endured other medical maladies. Her advancing MS is taking a toll. She’s fought hard to retain independence, but in October, she finally agreed that she needed daily help.
Together we made one of the trips to the hospital on foot (I walked, and she used her mobility scooter) because Paratransit couldn’t accommodate a same-day appointment. Crossing two freeway entrances without the benefit of a traffic light proved harrowing. Every bump caused her pain. It’s not something either of us cares to repeat.
In June, I found myself alone in a building with a mentally unstable man who had set fire to the church sanctuary. I volunteered in the back half of the property. The sound of a distant smoke alarm and the smell of smoke sent me to explore the outer corridor. The man emerged, engulfed in a cloud of white smoke, holding a lighter in each hand.
St. Paul’s UMC Sanctuary Fire
My fumbling fingers managed to call 911, and I safely exited the building without another encounter. The fire went to two alarms, but thankfully there were no injuries, and they arrested the arsonist at the scene.
In the aftermath, we learned that Lifted Spirits’ entire inventory of donated clothing, masks, blankets, and more would be a loss. In addition, exposure to lead and asbestos rendered the building and most of its content unsafe.
Former Lifted Spirits Serving Room, Gutted and waiting for rebuild
At the time, I served as one of two lead volunteers. We moved the program outside, rallied our resources, and rented a portable storage container to continue helping vulnerable men and women from the parking lot. Unfortunately, San Jose had several days with triple-digit temperatures this summer, making for a few long months.
POD (Portable on Demand) storage delivery
For various reasons I won’t go into, I tendered my resignation from Lifted Spirits at the end of October. I had hoped to stay through year-end, but that didn’t work out. After nearly five years of service as a volunteer, program lead, former board member, and donor, my last month felt demoralizing. The executive director showed up on my last day of volunteering (at my request), so I could hand over keys and other property. She called “thank you” as she raced to her next appointment. It’s been painful letting go of something I’ve been passionate about for so long. I miss the program, my fellow volunteers, and, of course, the women we served. I’m disheartened to hear how quickly things changed.
While outdoors this past summer, our volunteers put lifting spirits first. We welcomed women through the gate, set out pretty paper placemats, and offered them water or lemonade and a scone. They requested hygiene items from a private station, then “shopped” in our clothing area. I enjoyed selecting outfits and setting aside clothing favorites as they came in. We also had a few food staples provided by our local food bank. We knew the women by name and were there to listen and offer support.
Since my departure, all of the offerings have been reduced to efficiencies. Clothing remains in the POD, and women climb a small ramp to view them in an unlit space. Hygiene items are pre-packaged, and they hand women a lunch instead of serving them at the table.
Last year at this time, we created a party-like atmosphere. We decorated the canopies, played Christmas music, and passed out hot chocolate and tea. In addition, we provided a hot, seasonal lunch, and one of our volunteers made soap and donated earrings so our clients could give someone else a gift and a card. Everyone received a generously portioned gift bag and left with a smile.
This year they put plexiglass barriers at the gate, and two volunteers asked if they “wanted a gift” and then passed it through the opening.
I’m heartsick when I hear of these changes. I’m trying to process my anger and grief, my sense of loss for a program I poured my heart and soul into, and an enveloping sadness for my sister, who I moved to an assisted living facility two weeks ago, just a few weeks after she turned 62.
I received the following email in late June via my blog:
Good afternoon, I came across your web page as I was researching Windsor water woollies of Poulton-le-Flyde near Blackpool as I have recently managed to purchase a large number of photographs depicting the companies swimwear products from the 20’s and 30’s. The photographs I have are the actual original copies the company had taken in order to select for their advertising and obviously your Aunt Alys features in quite a few of them and I was wondering if you would like copies forwarded to you? I look forward to your reply. Regards Jeff
Jeff Riddle
I felt giddy as I promptly replied with a resounding “yes!”
Of course, it pays to tag your blog posts, which is how he found my previous Aunt Alys’ posts.
I wrote:
Hello Jeff,
My goodness, you’ve just made my day. I would love copies of any photos you have of our Aunt Alys. If there are several, you can add to a shared Google drive. If there are just a few, email attachments work as well.
I would love to hear more about your collection in general and your interests in the Windsor Water Woollies.
Alys
Mr. Riddle forwarded these photos of Aunt Alys (Alys Milner Lancaster) and gave me permission to share his story.
Modeling a Windsor Water WoollieAunt Alys, with her winning smile
Hi Alys
Thank you for your reply. I am sharing with you copies of the pictures I have of your Aunt Alys. Sorry, there aren’t more.
Long story short: I used to own an antique shop and also ran Flea Markets throughout the northwest of England. During one of these markets, I met a couple who had purchased the old Windsors factory in Poulton-le Flyde near Blackpool. The couple were selling items they had found in the building, and after a conversation, they invited me to the factory to try and assist them in selling items they had found. To my amazement, when I arrived, the factory was like a time capsule, having been locked up and left untouched following a burst water pipe inside. It was a treasure trove of items ranging from vintage automobiles to little tin whistles, which were part of a children’s sailor outfit the company used to produce. One of the highlights was the bathroom in the office area, which was original art deco in design and beautiful for an office washroom. Anyway, I was able to advise them on the best way forward selling the items, and they gave me the collection of photographs.
I hope you enjoy the pictures. She truly was a beautiful lady.
Regards, Jeff
Jeff Riddle
Isn’t that a great story? Mr. Riddle describes the factory in fascinating detail. What a lucky break to run into the factory’s new owners and to further receive an invitation for a walk-through. I would have never known of the photo’s existence if he hadn’t reached out and graciously shared these images of my father’s only sister and my namesake aunt.
I headed home from my volunteer shift on Monday, shortly before 6:00. Lifted Spirits is in the heart of downtown San Jose, and less than a block from city hall.
Outrage over the murder of George Floyd has led to protests around the globe. San Jose is no exception. Protestors chant for hours each day in front of City Hall, followed by marches in the early evening.
As I left Lifted Spirits, I pulled into the mini-mart on the corner to buy a cold drink for the ride home. I had one of those surreal moments when I saw a row of police officers on motorcycles lined up against a two-story mural. I snapped this photo:
Tommy Smith-John Carlos Thank You.
The mural depicts a message of thanks to San Jose Olympians, Tommy Smith, and John Carlos. It’s officially titled: Tommy Smith-John Carlos Thank You.
Here is some history, courtesy of Wikipedia:
On the morning of October 16, 1968,[2] US athlete Tommie Smith won the 200 meter race with a world-record time of 19.83 seconds. Australia’s Peter Norman finished second with a time of 20.06 seconds, and the US’s John Carlos finished in third place with a time of 20.10 seconds. After the race was completed, the three went to the podium for their medals.
The two US athletes received their medals shoeless, but wearing black socks, to represent black poverty.[3] Smith wore a black scarf around his neck to represent black pride, Carlos had his tracksuit top unzipped to show solidarity with all blue-collar workers in the US and wore a necklace of beads which he described “were for those individuals that were lynched, or killed and that no-one said a prayer for, that were hung and tarred. It was for those thrown off the side of the boats in the Middle Passage.”[4] All three athletes wore Olympic Project for Human Rights (OPHR) badges after Norman, a critic of Australia’s former White Australia Policy, expressed empathy with their ideals.[5] Sociologist Harry Edwards, the founder of the OPHR, had urged black athletes to boycott the games; reportedly, the actions of Smith and Carlos on October 16, 1968[2] were inspired by Edwards’ arguments.[6]
Both US athletes intended to bring black gloves to the event, but Carlos forgot his, leaving them in the Olympic Village. It was Peter Norman who suggested Carlos wear Smith’s left-handed glove. For this reason, Carlos raised his left hand as opposed to his right, differing from the traditional Black Power salute.[8] When The Star-Spangled Banner played, Smith and Carlos delivered the salute with heads bowed, a gesture which became front-page news around the world. As they left the podium they were booed by the crowd.[9] Smith later said, “If I win, I am American, not a black American. But if I did something bad, then they would say I am a Negro. We are black an,d we are proud of being black. Black America will understand what we did tonight.”[3]
Tommie Smith stated in later years that “We were concerned about the lack of black assistant coaches. About how Muhammad Ali got stripped of his title. About the lack of access to good housing and our kids not being able to attend the top colleges.”[10]
I stood for a moment facing a row of police officers with their backs to the mural. Did any of them register the irony of their position? They stood with their backs to a piece of art depicting two courageous athletes literally using their winning Olympic platform to protest racial injustice?
I got back in my car, prepared to exit onto Santa Clara street. The protestors came down Santa Clara *at that exact moment*, saw the officers, stopped, and turned into the gas station. The protesters addressed the officers with chants, and one protester instructed others “do not throw anything.”
I got out of my car and took a knee. Within a few moments, the marchers returned to their intended route along Santa Clara Street toward City Hall.
San Jose Protest
San Jose Protest
San Jose Protest
San Jose Protest
San Jose Protest
San Jose Protest
San Jose Protest
Back in my car once again, I asked one of the officers if it was okay to exit on Santa Clara. He said, “It’s not safe for you to be here.” He then directed me toward the row of officers until one of them yelled at me to stop. Within moments they let me exit the lot, and I drove home.
I’m a 60-year-old white woman who’s afforded an unearned privilege based on the color of my skin.
George Floyd, a 46-year-old black man, lost his life because of an undeserved bias based on the color of his skin.
I have a dream that my four little children will one day live in a nation where they will not be judged by the color of their skin but by the content of their character. I have a dream today. Rev. Martin Luther King, Jr.
My namesake Aunt Alys died in London in August of 2008. It’s taken a decade to receive the promised copies of her photographs, reminders of her enchanted youth.
As years go, 2008 was one of my worst. My younger sister fell early that year and broke her hip, further complicated by her MS. She was in rehab for a month. My mother also had a series of falls in what was the beginning of her decline. She died that year three days after Christmas. My father-in-law died of a heart attack that June and my mother-in-law passed later the same month.
The following months were a blur dealing with attorneys (solicitors) from two countries, sorting through possessions, attending funerals, and tending to a multitude of tasks, while continuing to raise my boys. It was hard.
My aunt’s executor delayed her London funeral for a month so that I could settle my boys in school before flying to England. I looked through her albums while in London, but on the day of her funeral, her solicitor took me aside and said I would have to wait before claiming them. Things got messy from there.
Though my aunt left us a generous financial legacy, it was the photos I craved. Initially they said “it takes time”. Later they said that her friend and executor would copy the photos to CDs. I left voice mail messages, sent unanswered emails, and appealed to their sense of decency. Her friend and the beneficiary of part of her estate stopped returning my emails. Periodically, I conducted internet searches to see if her name surfaced. If you Google “Alys Milner” it turns up searches for me or my aunt.
Alys Milner (later Lancaster) posing in a Windsor Woolly bathing costume
Through a search I learned that her friend donated her albums to the Victoria and Albert Museum. I contacted the museum by email, waited weeks for a reply, and was finally contacted with apologies and assured that the photo albums were in their care.
Aunt Alys’ photos were not on display, but instead stored in the museum’s archives. I can’t imagine she would have wanted this, but her friend seemed to think it was more important to store them in a museum than to send them to her niece.
I asked the museum’s archive department if they would send me copies, but they said they were not available in digital form. I was welcome to come to the museum and make my own copies, no easy task when you live across the pond.
Last month, eleven years after my initial request, I received a letter from her solicitor asking me to confirm my address. A CD with a few copies of her photos and scrapbooks would soon be on their way.
Aunt Alys didn’t have children, and she didn’t think anyone would want her photos. I assured her that we would treasure all of them and she verbally agreed nearly twenty years before her death.
On the cover of a fitness magazine
Rocking a blue wool bathing suit
At long last, the CD’s arrived. It’s been a thrill seeing her photos once again but how I wish she were here to fill-in the details of her interesting life.
Not everyone can rock a bathing cap
No caption for this one. A modeling shot perhaps
This one seems risqué for the time
Alys’ professional headshots
Captioned “Burton & Garland” Queen of something
Studio photograph
Glam shot. I love these pants
Newspaper clippings from her scrapbook.
Scrapbook clippings
Scrapbook clippings
Aunt Alys’ winning smile
Modeling for Windsor Woollies
Windsor Woollies Mannequin Parade
Carnival clippings
The other Alys Milner
More Windsor Woollies
Sharing these photos evokes a mixture of nostalgia and loss. Aunt Alys married in 1937 and two years later, England was at war with Germany. My aunt took part in the war effort, bringing clothing to bombing victims after the air raids, while my father served as a translator in India.
A wedding menu
The wedding party. My father is the tall gentleman, third from the right
Newspaper clipping
You’re invited
My delight at finally receiving copies of these photos, gave way to an unexpected sorrow. Grief travels its own path. For now I’ll just let it be.
It’s such a clever hashtag, one that if you weren’t in the know might evoke thoughts of summer picnics, trips to the beach or as a way to tag your 4th of July, Independence Day photos.
Instead, Families Belong Together is a response to the current administration’s desire to stop immigrants from crossing our southern border. Instead of compelling Congress to act on a comprehensive immigration bill, the administration has implemented what’s known as a “zero-tolerance policy” of arresting anyone crossing the border without papers. Many of these border crossings are families seeking refuge from violence and political unrest. Some have traveled for up to a month with young children, looking for a better life.
This Administration’s response: Arrest the parents, then immediately separate *families* from their children.
Let that settle in.
Spanish version of Families Belong Together
Authorities place parents in detention centers, immediately separating them from their infants and small children. Traumatized children are placed in a separate detention center, sometimes in another *state* with no understanding of why. Images of children sleeping on the floor covered in mylar blankets have evoked outrage. Footage of crying children, desperate for their mother have all but the hardest-hearts weeping along with them. Comparisons to Japanese interment camps and Nazi Germany abound.
I attended a Families Belong Together rally this past weekend and have found solace in numbers. There were over a thousand people at the San Jose rally on Saturday, a hot, windless, mid-day gathering. Throughout the country thousands of people rallied in over 700 locations. Rallies bring people together, spread the word, and offer resources for ways to help.
I’ve also been finding temporary respite from a steady hum of depression by volunteering at Lifted Spirits, a program for homeless women in San Jose. When I’m busy and engaged helping others, it helps me feel less overwhelmed. Spending time at Lifted Spirits allows me to positively impact someone else’s life without being swallowed whole by a situation I feel powerless to change. I’ll share more about their mission in a future post.
FamiliesBelongTogether.org
If you’re also feeling overwhelmed, here are a few resources…
“More than 180 partner organizations came together to pull this off, including MoveOn, the National Domestic Workers Alliance, the Leadership Conference for Civil and Human Rights, the ACLU, faith groups such as Sojourners and the Presbyterian Church, Avaaz, the Southern Poverty Law Center, and a range of labor unions, the YWCA, scores more tremendous allies and partners, and countless local groups in cities large and small, united across lines of ethnicity, race, national origin, and language.
When you feel alone, when it’s all too much, remember that what is possible when we come together. That there is power in our numbers.
In the decades to come, people will ask themselves and each other what they did to fight the darkness at this moment in history.
On Saturday, many of us summoned a piece of an answer. We were in the streets. And we won’t stop until we turn the darkness back.”
Today I cried. The tears have eluded me all week, pressing on my chest, lingering in my throat, and craving expression and release.
I was boarding a plane for Portland when I saw the early reports of the Stoneman Douglas High School shooting last week. In my holiday cocoon I avoided the news, and for a time kept the real world at bay.
Back home the cold, brutal and devastating reality of yet another mass shooting settled in my core. I have nothing new or original to say and no words of wisdom to solve the ridiculous and intractable stale mate of guns in America.
My queen-for-a-day, pie-in-the-sky solution would be to gather every last gun on the planet and melt them to a pulp. We all know that will never happen. Members of our powerful gun lobby make a mint manufacturing instruments of death while hiding behind the second amendment right to bear arms.
With both of my boys away from home this week, I felt their absence keenly. When they were small I worried about them falling out of a tree or dashing in front of a car. My common sense parenting kept those little boys safe. Now they’re young men living in a world where school shootings have become a reality.
My friend Claire’s daughter, Chelsea, survived a school shooting in her small town of Bailey Colorado. I’ll never forgot the phone call, or the many conversations that followed over the years. A lone gunman killed Chelsea’s friend Emily Keyes at Platte Canyon High School in 2006. When Claire came to town, I would ask how they were coping. It was hard to image that kind of trauma.
I’m moved by her words, proud to know her and at the same time deeply saddened by the burden she’ll carry throughout her life. Note: If you click on Chelsea’s editorial (and I hope you will) please refrain from reading the appalling comments that follow.
Chelsea Warren, along with Stoneman Douglas High School student and survivor Emma González, give me reason to hope. These young people are the way forward.
From the Mike and the Mechanics song: “if you don’t give up, and don’t give in, you may just be okay.
So we open up a quarrel
Between the present and the past
We only sacrifice the future
It’s the bitterness that lasts
So don’t yield to the fortunes
You sometimes see as fate
It may have a new perspective
On a different day
And if you don’t give up, and don’t give in
You may just be okay
So say it loud, say it clear (oh say it clear)
You can listen as well as you hear
Because it’s too late, it’s too late (it’s too late) when we die (oh when we die)
To admit we don’t see eye to eye
Friday night, as my son left his desk, he reached down to unplug a small space heater. We were together in our home office. When he reached for the cord it was scorching-hot, so he quickly pulled his hand away. Within seconds, sparks started shooting from the electrical outlet.
Two-prong plug and melted cord
If you been through something like this, you know that time distorts. It slows down to a crawl, at least in your mind, as you try to absorb the information at hand.
I kept asking my son if he was okay and I could hear him say yes. I asked again and then I asked again, never taking my eyes off the sparks inexplicably shooting out of the wall. What-do-I-do, what-do-I-do, what-do-I-do?
We have a disabled fire extinguisher in the garage.
Useless.
My older son called into the room: “It’s an electrical fire, don’t use water.” Mike headed outside to the fuse box to cut the power.
Scorched drapes
Sparks shuttered like oil in a hot pan, popping in place on the bamboo floor. Then the drapes caught fire…or didn’t. They’re synthetic, so they started to melt.
Think.
I backed out of the room, grabbed a chair cushion, and returned. Flushed with fear, I smashed away at the sparks. Suffocate the flames. That’s what I’m supposed to do. Cushion in hand, I whacked at the sparks on the floor. I hit the outlet, apparently breaking the melting cord at about the same time Mike killed the power. I stood there in the dark, waiting for the fire to come back, but just as quickly it was over.
We all handle these things differently. My son joked that it was his “first fire” and I countered, “let’s call it your last.” Mike assured everyone that all was fine. We managed to make light of what could have been so much worse and even sat down to an evening meal.
About thirty minutes later we regrouped, opened the windows to some cool night air, and Mike helped me take down the scorched drapes to help with the smell. I would deal with the layer of soot in the morning.
Saturday morning dawned. Instead of feeling rested, Mike and I woke up with a bad cold.
Actually, it turned out to be the flu. I called in our regrets to a friend’s Christmas party, an evening we hated to miss. My sister and I were attending a card making class on Sunday to celebrate our October/November birthdays. I had to cancel that too. We slept for hours, fitfully, painfully, all the while hoping our boys remained well.
Tuesday rolled around and I had to cancel my volunteer shift at a food bank. I felt about two feet tall making that call, but there are other days, other shifts, and you realize life carries on just fine without you.
In the words of someone brilliant: This too shall pass.
Having that tiniest of fires in my home taught me how quickly and unpredictably a fire can start and spread. We’re lucky. My son is fine. There is no significant damage to our home and the rest of my family is safe. We lost a few immaterial possessions and as soon as I’m well, I’ll be updating that fire extinguisher.
The big fires are out of my control. I’m trying to heed other’s advice by doing what I can without falling into that deep, dark hole of despair. It’s been a devastating year for our beautiful state.
[The Thomas] wildfire in Southern California that sparked devastating blazes across the region remains, as of Wednesday morning, the second-largest fire in California history, with only 55 percent of it successfully contained. The Thomas Fire is not expected to be fully contained until January 2018 and is on track to become the largest fire in California history.
The Thomas Fire scorched as of Tuesday night—about 425 square miles (1,100 square kilometers), or 19 times the size of Manhattan.
Welcome to our front porch. There’s a beautifully embroidered welcome sign, a gift from Marlene, and a trio of home-grown pumpkins
It’s hard to comprehend the bleakest October in recent memory. By day I’m trying to regain my equilibrium. At night, though, my body betrays me. I wake with my hands closed tightly into fists and I have to remind myself to breathe. It’s been surreal.
Historically speaking, October is my favorite month. It starts with my birthday and ends with Halloween, with lots of playfulness in between.
This year my birthday dawned October 2nd with devastating news out of Las Vegas. Another senseless act of gun violence, perhaps the worst in our troubled history. There are more questions than answers; more lives tragically destroyed. Worst of all, nothing seems to change.
I received lovely birthday greetings throughout the day from family and friends. I swung through highs and lows the strangest mixture of darkness and light.
My friend Kelly and her husband Jim were due to arrive October 1st from Canada. They got a nasty flu instead, and were bed-ridden for several days. Jim had to cancel his trip entirely. We were all disappointed to lose our long-planned week in coastal Carmel
Carmel by the sea
Kelly came a week later and we enjoyed the abbreviated time we had together.
Kelly and I took a card class together
The day after Kelly arrived, we woke to more difficult news. An unprecedented firestorm swept through Santa Rosa late at night, destroying an entire neighborhood and damaging businesses and a major hospital. Many of the older residents were unable to escape. The loss of life is devastating.
Multiple spare-the-air days
I’ve been mentally “gathering my people.” My friend Leslie moved to Las Vegas three years ago to enjoy the open space and mountain air. I couldn’t reach her by text, so it was a huge relief when she marked herself safe via Facebook.
My friend Marcia lives in Santa Rosa and plans to visit today. It’s been on the calendar for months, but given the devastating fires, it will be especially good to see her. Marcia’s mother had to be evacuated from her care home as the fires spread. The quick-moving fire ravished entire neighborhoods. At the height of the firestorm, 100,000 people were evacuated. 20,000 remain displaced and 42 people lost their lives in the fast-moving fire.
Santa Rosa holds a special place in my heart. I spent three summers working at SRT, Santa Rosa’s Summer Repertory Theater. I wrote about my friendship with Marcia earlier this year.
Summer Repertory Theater (SRT) Program, 1984
My in-laws lived in Calistoga in their final years. Authorities evacuated the entire town of Calistoga for two days this weekend as the high winds constantly changed course. Mike feels emotionally invested in the well-being of their former home and ranch, even though the property has since changed hands. Authorities allowed residents back home on Sunday and as far as we can tell, the homes in that area are safe.
Extended family in Calistoga (Mt. St. Helena in background)
Throughout this unfolding drama, my colleague Ellen Hovey quietly lost her battle with cancer. Ellen’s strength and courage inspired all who knew her. She’s survived by her husband and her 17-year-old son with Down Syndrome. It’s a sad loss for all who knew her. I can’t image how hard it must have been to say goodbye to her young man.
I’m craving a walk in the woods, alone with my thoughts. I have my fingers crossed that the long-term forecast is correct and that the hoped-for rain arrives on Friday. It will aid the fire-fighters and at the same time clear our the dangerous, smoke-filled air.
Equilibrium will return. For now I feel the weight of the world.
In early October 2017, a series of wildfires started burning across the state of California, United States. They broke out throughout Napa, Lake, Sonoma, Mendocino, Butte, and Solano counties during severe fire weather conditions effectively leading to a major red flag warning from much of the Northern California area. Seventeen separate wildfires were reported at this time.[3] These fires included the Tubbs Fire (the most destructive), the Atlas Fire, Nuns Fire and others.
Due to the extreme conditions, shortly after the fires ignited on October 8 and 9, they rapidly grew to become extensive, full-scale incidents spanning from 1,000 acres (400 hectares) to well over 20,000 acres (8,100 ha) each within a single day. By October 14, the fires had burned more than 210,000 acres (85,000 ha), and destroyed an estimated 5,700 structures [4][1] while forcing 90,000 people to evacuate from their homes.[5] The Northern California fires have killed at least 42 people[1] and hospitalized at least 185,[6] making the week of October 8, 2017, the deadliest week of wildfires in California history.
Gardening Nirvana 