Shining Through

Joop (pronounced ‘Yoop’, rhymes with ‘soap’) is my uncle. He’s from the Netherlands. He’s opinionated, stubborn, smart, musical, and artistic. He has created lovely oil paintings—works with abstract shapes and colors that tell a story.

His classical music recording collection fills shelves and shelves with CDs and VHS tapes of public television performances. Joop is kind and generous with people he knows and stingy and critical with authoritative figures. That could be left-over from the war. He joined the Dutch underground resistance as a teenager and was captured by the Germans. He escaped, but he was recaptured. Somewhere along the way, they broke his back (literally).

Miraculously, he survived. He emigrated to America. He taught art and art history in high school and met and married my aunt. They retired to the beautiful hills of North Carolina. I was visiting them—well, actually, I was taking care of Joop while my aunt went on a trip to visit her son.

Joop is a big man, but he has become a bit frail. He has a heart condition and diabetes that is controlled through a careful diet. He’s actually doing pretty well, considering all of his health conditions, but he can’t travel. This morning I fix his breakfast and we finish our coffee in preparation for the day.

Joop is a most gracious host and asks me, “Did you sleep well?” His Dutch accent has faded only slightly over the years.

“Wonderful, yes.”

“So, what would you like to do today?” he asks. Joop is the host and I am the guest. He wants to make sure my visit is pleasant.

“Oh,” I said, “I thought we’d drive into Marion, go shopping for some groceries. Later we can drive to the National Park’s Visitor’s center and look at the crafts if you like.”

“Yes, good. They have some wonderful ceramics there. Wonderful. But expensive. It’s really outrageous what they charge.” A pause. “Where’s Laura?”

“She’s visiting Randy. She’ll be home on Friday.” I smile in hopes that my smile will make it okay.

“Oh. That’s a long time.” (He misses her.) He thinks about it for a minute. “Would you like some breakfast?” Always the host.

“No, Joop. I’m fine. I already ate, thanks.” He looks down at his own spent meal and contemplates his breakfast. I get up and clear the plates. We eat in the living room on trays. The TV is on (always PBS), but it’s low. It’s really just background noise. The cat comes in and takes her place next to Joop. The dog growls a warning at me when I move close to take his tray.

Joop watches the television for a few minutes. I return and take my place on the sofa. He’s watching a program about ice skating.

“You know,” he says, “we used to go ice skating on the canals in winter. We would go out for hours. It was so cold. We would have races. I was pretty good. Then my mother would make us hot tea. I loved ice skating.”

His discourse about ice skating morphs into his father’s garden, his mother’s love for tea, and the camaraderie he had with his brothers and sisters. He doesn’t talk about the war and imprisonment, but he has in the past. I want to sit down with him and ask him all about that, but Laura doesn’t approve. She doesn’t want him to relive something that was so painful. So I respect her wishes and never ask him about it. His memory of his childhood is pretty good, though. Somehow, it shines through and becomes alive in his words.

The phone rings and I answer it. Laura is checking in.

“Yes,” I say, “we’re fine. We’ve just finished breakfast. . . Yes, we’re going out for a bit today. . . Okay, we’ll see you Friday.”

I hang up. “That was Laura. She says she’s doing fine with Randy and sends her love.”

“When is she coming back?”

“Friday. We’ll drive to the airport to pick her up.”

“Oh, that’s a long time.” He pauses. “So, what would you like to do today? Do you want some breakfast?”

And after a bit he adds, “Did you sleep well?”

A few years passed and surprisingly, vibrant, bright-eyed Laura succumbed to cancer just two months before Alzheimer's disease took Joop. I miss them both.

Aftermath

The dust has settled (not even), the ashes are gone (as long as you don’t breathe), and the air is clear (again, don’t breathe). Residents are swapping stories and taking stock. We all know people who evacuated their homes, some whose homes sustained fire damage, and even some who lost their homes. For those, things won’t be back to normal for a long time. And even then, their lives will always be divided into “before the fire” and “after the fire.” “Oh,” they’ll say, “I lost that in the fire.”

Since I had to go through the exercise of packing for home evacuation, I realize now how unprepared I was for choosing, gathering, and preserving. I have vowed to do a few things so that if this happens to me again, I will be more organized.

The television news was helpful in telling people what they should do to prepare for evacuation. But, what if you don’t have time or if you lose power and don’t have access to radio or TV?

Rule 1: Be prepared as much as possible. Have a battery operated radio on hand that has fresh batteries. Go out and fill your cars with fuel if you think you might need to leave.

Sometimes officials only let you return to a neighborhood if you can prove that you live there.

Rule 2: Have documentation on your person that proves your address of residence. This can be a driver’s license or a utility bill that shows the service address.

During my rush to pack and organize, I got my digital camera and started taking pictures of my entire house. However, just hastily taken pictures probably isn’t sufficient. Each picture should also have verbal descriptions.

Rule 3: Grab all documentation and paperwork that will help you get your life back together quicker. Some of this stuff may be in a safe-deposit box (it’s probably safe) or a fire-proof box at your house (grab it). This includes passports, birth certificates, bank accounts, insurance policies, and documentation (including pictures) of your household goods that may need replacing.

Mentally go through and evaluate the effect of losing your possessions. Replaceable or irreplaceable? I have two wool, hand-woven tapestries given to me by my grandmother. They were woven by an ancestor cousin, Sophia Flagg, in 1845. Irreplaceable. The family bible lists births, deaths, and marriages and was my first source in genealogy research. Irreplaceable. Then there are photos of my family, both very old photos and even current ones. Irreplaceable.

Rule 4: Make a list and check it twice of your irreplaceables!

If you have to evacuate, you’ll feel so much better if you can at least change your clothes, take a shower, and brush your teeth.

Rule 5: Pack a change of clothes and toiletries to last a few days at least. Think practical. Include a sweater (even though Santa Ana winds drive the temperatures into the 90’s, you never know how it may cool off, especially if you’re sleeping in a tent in an evacuation center), closed-toed shoes, hat, sunglasses.

You may be able to crash at a friend’s house. You may not be able to.

Rule 6: Bedding, a pillow, sleeping bag, air mattresses. Not every one has camping equipment, but blankets and pillows will help.

Again, think camping.

Rule 7: Flashlight, water bottle, water, snacks.

Children present a whole new set of issues. Children like familiar things, familiar food, and familiar people as much as possible.

Rule 8: Include your child’s favorite toy (or two) in your irreplaceable list. Include their special blanket or pillow and special T-shirt or sweater. Include snacks or drinks that they like.

Pets also require extra planning. San Diego County residents needed to take care of horses, livestock, and other animals besides the normal dogs and cats.

Rule 9: Include pet food, bedding or portable kennel, container for food and water, leashes, toys, and anything that will make their relocation less traumatic.

Although life stops for you during such a crisis, amazingly enough, the world goes on outside the disaster zone and you may have to participate. Organize what you need to continue your day job, including paperwork and computers.

Rule 10: Go ahead and grab the entire desk top computer if you’ll regret not having all of your files. Don’t forget your cell phone and charger.

And finally, don’t go through this alone. Talk to your neighbors and call your friends and family. Keep in touch throughout the ordeal because conditions change. If you need something, go ahead and ask for help. You’ll feel much better if you don’t feel like you’re dealing with this all by yourself.

Rule 11: Try with a little help from your friends.

Additional information can be found here.

The New Indie Bloggers

Edit: Alas, IndieBloggers no longer exists. All good things must come to an end! Indie Bloggers was a web site designed to promote writing and writers. My previously posted submission can be found here: Kayak Surfer.

Hills Ablaze in San Diego

This picture was sent to me by my brother-in-law who received it from a friend (photographer unknown).

Fires in San Diego County

This morning brings air that has cleared up significantly. Early Monday morning we awoke about 2:00AM because the air was laden with smoke and ash. Our cat freaked out and started crying. We quickly closed all windows to keep out the bad air from the fire raging 20 miles east of us.

The next morning we watched the news to determine the extent of the fire. We stepped outside. The hot, dry Santa Ana winds were still blowing hard (30-40 miles per hour) and the air was very dry (less than ten percent humidity). Ash fell from the sky. Although we were still quite far from any fire, the high winds made it impossible to predict the exact path of the fire, as well as how long we would be safe. This picture was taken on Monday afternoon. The sun appeared like an orange ball high in the sky; the lighting was eerie and strange.By noon, our area was designated as advisory. We decided to pack our irreplaceable possessions and put everything by the front door. The news helped us organize. We packed a few clean clothes and toiletries, wallet, credit cards, driver’s license, passports, paper work with utility bill showing our address, insurance information, and important work-related information. We grabbed photo albums and negative boxes (there were many), camera, sunglasses, hat, flashlight, sleeping bags, pillows, blankets, water and water bottles, day pack, laptop, and guitars. We retrieved the cat’s kennel as well as her food (oh, she is going to hate this!). We piled everything by the front door. We figured we could be ready to vacate in 20 minutes or so. If things worsened, we would start packing the cars. We went out and put gas in both cars—so we could drive far without having to find gas.

We called several friends: How are you? Are you okay? What’s your status? If you need to evacuate you can come here . . . or, if we need to evacuate we’ll come to your house. It turns out that we had friends who evacuated to our house on Monday night. We had 8 people, 2 dogs, and 2 cats. The next day, we watched the news. It was difficult getting accurate information. Some areas were cleared to return; others were more tenuous. No one wanted to go home, only to leave again.

We had a big dinner Tuesday night and reminisced about college days, since we all were friends from college. I’m really glad my friends came over. It’s much easier to go through the uneasiness with other people. You don’t want to be by yourself.

All of our homes are safe. We are the lucky ones. Over half a million people were evacuated and 1500 homes were lost.

D Street Beach in Encinitas

At the end of D Street in Encinitas are a few benches, a lone tree, and view of the ocean. A steep wooden staircase gives access to the sand where surfers ply the rollers year round.I frequently stash my camera just in case and this day, as the setting sun played hide and seek with the clouds, I could not resist capturing the on-going light show.

Kayak Surfer

Once October arrives and Labor Day is behind us, most of the tourists are gone. The beach once again becomes ours and it's time to reclaim it. Early morning or late day, low tide or disappearing beach, the beach is a playground for fishing, surfing, walking, or running.

So here I am. The clouds are blocking the setting sun, leaving an antique finish across the sky and the darkened sand. The sea is muted, absorbing the fading light. Even the waves are quiet, relentlessly depositing their gifts upon the beach. The water carries bits of shells and lonely strands of seaweed which remain strewn upon the wet sand. The tide is receding and ravenous gulls scrounge for morsels amid low-tide deposits.

I have just finished my run, some thirty minutes of rhythmic pounding, and I raise my arms to help open up gasping lungs. A breeze full of the smells of the sea fills my nostrils, mixing with the dried sweat and salt on my skin and sweat-moistened hair. I welcome this invasion.

I notice a lone kayak, empty of its driver, patiently waiting in the wet sand. I suck more air and turn my back on the kayak. Coming down the beach is its owner, identified by his paddle, full wet suit and helmet. I continue gasping for air and briskly walk for my cool-down. The kayaker and I pass each other, but he doesn’t see me or notice me. His focus is his craft, his intentions are honed in on the melding of his body with this unassuming little floatation device. He looks west to the ocean.

I turn around so I can face the kayaker now reunited with his craft. With the paddle in one hand, he drags the boat towards the water, choosing a position not quite in the water, but within the waves’ reach. He positions the boat carefully and climbs in. He busies himself with some attachments or fittings and then uses the paddle as a lever to push himself towards the water. He strains as sandy goop sucks his craft and tries to prevent his leaving. He stops and waits for a wave to arrive.

I chuckle. The man reminds me of a small child sitting in a wagon, waiting for someone to come by and give him a pull. The kayaker turns impatient and once again begins to push against the sand to inch his way seaward.

At last, the sea relents and a wave lifts the little craft made heavy with its cargo, ever so slightly. He is working furiously now to paddle through the inch or two of liquid before the wave can take back its gift. One side, then the other, the paddle dips into the water, and the little kayak takes on a new wave. After each wave the kayaker responds by paddling with a burst of energy. He is fighting the incoming surf and working to get through the onslaught. The deeper he goes, the bigger the waves become that battle against him.

I am now completely drawn into his playful mastery of the sea. While I had expected the kayaker to work through the waves and reach outside, I now realize that this struggle is but the setup. The real goal is catching an incoming wave, controlling the kayak through the surf. Agile, sharp turns allow him to move up and down the wave.

I continue watching him as he once again battles the incoming waves and struggles to reach outside. He squirrels around a bit, looking for a promising swell. He sees a wave that he likes and attacks it, paddling with the surge to catch his ride. Once caught, the kayak becomes an extension of his body. He works the wave, using paddle, body, and kayak. He rides the shoulder and twirls in the surf.

He is the kayak surfer. He releases the wave and manuvers free to fight the battle once again. He is as relentless as the sea itself.

The Moral High Ground

I am beyond angry at my government for being immoral.

First, I resent how we came to invade Iraq based on false premises (lies). I note that we are perpetrators of a pre-emptive war. We have relinquished the moral high ground based on this fact alone.

We further diminish our moral standing by locking people up in “secret” prisons or in Guantanamo Bay without any redress, charges, or legal stature.

Oh, there’s more. We advocate and practice torture, even as our President insists that we don’t. In the fall of 2005 I participated in a letter-writing campaign to President Bush protesting the use of torture by U.S. military, agents, or contractors. Here is a portion of the response I got.

President Bush has repeatedly affirmed our country’s commitment to the worldwide elimination of torture. He believes that human dignity must be protected and that freedom from torture is an inalienable human right.

Does that mesh with water-boarding, sleep deprivation, and sexual indignities? Here is the

whole letter.

Apparently, there’s more. Blackwater USA is a federal contractor operating without any accountability, actively spreading wanton violence without any behavioral checks and wrecking havoc in an already-festering terror-breeding environment. Why do we need Blackwater? Because we don’t have enough troops to continue this war (“spread democracy”) without them. Why isn’t there a draft to make up the troop deficit? (I am not advocating a draft.) Because then a whole generation of young people would actually become engaged and informed with what our government is doing. A 60’s-style activism would emerge.

Why isn’t everybody vocal and upset? Because ignorance is bliss. Don’t bother me while I’m trying to make a living, get my life together, or raise a family. Don’t bother me while I watch another lame reality show on the boob tube. Don’t bother me while I go shopping. (Remember, that is the sacrifice we were asked to make for this war: Go shopping!)

I don’t care if you’re conservative or liberal, Christian, non-Christian, or atheist. I don’t care if you think Bush is a good president or the WPE (Worst President Ever). You cannot convince me that this administration is not morally corrupt.

Wedding Shoes

Lost Hope

(And you thought this post was about politics??? Ha!) When did it become so painful to be a sports fan in San Diego? Not only did we witness our inspired and much-cheered-for Padres’ season melt away, but the Chargers have already equaled the total season losses from all of last year and we are but a quarter of the way in (I am including last year’s post-season in that number). I am at a loss for words. Yoga, anyone . . . anyone?

Ray of Hope

A recent sunset at my favorite beach: Stone Steps in Leucadia.

Pumpkins on Parade

High on a slopping hill overlooking the sea a couple of blocks up from the Self-Realization Fellowship (SRF) Temple and Ashram Center in Encinitas, a plot of land brings forth the fruits of fall. Pumpkins brighten the coastal scenery and provide a peaceful setting to admire the wonderful crop. The true miracle is seeing the land being used for agriculture. The ocean views make this a prime piece of real estate.

The land is owned by SRF and is used year-round to grow vegetables. It is attended by the monks who live at the temple.

When my children were young, we used to attend the SRF’s annual Halloween festival. Hundreds of intricately carved pumpkins greeted Halloween celebrants on all hallowed night. As we entered the fellowship grounds, a wonderful world of good and evil, make-believe and real-life lessons greeted us. Plays, musical numbers, characters, wish-granting queens and villainous plotters barraged our senses. The festival grew and grew in popularity, until the thousands of people it attracted made it too popular. After 2001, SRF no longer hosted the festival.

The Downtown Encinitas MainStreet Association still hosts its Safe Trick or Treat, where businesses along Highway 101 remain open and provide treats to youngsters in costume. Halloween activities are provided in the Lumberyard and SRF still provides carved pumpkins for Encinitas.

So, although I miss the SRF-hosted Halloween Festival, I am thankful that the monks still own the land and use it to grow these glorious pumpkins.

Leisure Time on Labor Day

Southern California baked over Labor Day weekend. Cool down Rx included beach time in both Del Mar and closer to home in Leucadia. The waves were pumping the whole weekend with mist forming occasionally as the cool water met the sizzling air. Absolutely no complaints. Here the sun sets in Del Mar as two surfers catch one more wave.
Leucadia was relatively peaceful, as the number of people sharply diminished the further you walked from the nearest access point.

Hey Joel! Put it in the garage.

I wanted to post a picture of my neighbor’s urinal—it’s in his garage and he added it when he built his custom-designed home. But I couldn’t quite bring myself to ask. “Hi, Pat. Happy Labor Day. How’s it going?”

“Yeah, I was wondering if I could take a picture of your urinal? . . . No, you don’t need to be in the picture . . . No, no, I don’t want an action shot . . . ” So, instead I show you a lovely urinal culled from the internet here.

But getting back to the point of the post. Recently the Los Angeles Times published an op-ed piece by Joel Stein who laments that perhaps his home value will diminish if he installs a urinal in his bathroom. He gives reasons why installing one is great

Toilet seat is always down
Decreased water use
Time-saving device

With opposing views from women he consulted that included

Urinals are found in large, impersonal institutions (think prisons)
Lidlessness is unsanitary
Urinals diminish the real estate value of the home

Here is a reason for putting one in. I recently attended a college graduation party that included both college-age kids (sorry, they’re kids to me) and members of the “parental generation” (relative to the college-age kids). A mean game of beer pong took place in the back yard with much beer consumed. While there were some young ladies, the ladies did not consume as much beer as the young men. As happens at cross-generational parties, the youngsters congregated outside to play beer pong, while we parental units huddled inside (watching an exciting Padres game on TV, as I recall).

And as the beer goes in, it must also come out. Many of the young men could not be bothered to enter to house (and walk nonchalantly past the leering adults) to use the bathroom. They found discreet (and as the night wore on, less and less discreet) corners of the garden to water the plants. Had they had access to a convenient urinal in the garage, I am sure they would have used it.

The garage is the perfect place for the urinal because the garage is the domain of the man. I don’t know if I really believe that. I do try to stay away from gender stereotypes, but as Joel pointed out, one of the complaints that women had with putting a urinal in the home bathroom was that a urinal is just too “aggressively male.” Unfair, he says. The house is already way too slanted towards the dominion of the woman. I agree. It is unfair. But, the garage has been the man’s domain: his tools, his car, his precious stuff from his previous life, and all his stuff that doesn’t go with the décor of the home.

My neighbor and his wife think that having the urinal in the garage is a great compromise. It’s great for beer pong. And so, Joel: put it in the garage!

One of Them Spanish-Sounding West Coast Cities

Letter to the Editor regarding: At the Plate: Deathly Numbers, by Roger Angell, The New Yorker, August 20, 2007.

Bonds's record dinger, in the fifth inning of a night game against the Washington Nationals at Petco Park, in San Francisco, came at his third at-bat of the evening . . .

Please tell Roger Angell that PetCo Park is in San Diego, not San Francisco as his article states. While one might forgive and even understand how such an embarrassing blunder could occur given that the Padres were involved in Bonds’s homerun record chase (see my own report here), nevertheless, confusing San Diego’s PetCo Park with San Francisco’s AT&T Park is bush league. I might think that Angell either isn’t a baseball fan or, more likely, such an East Coast-centric fan that to him the National League West Division is the geographic equivalent of, say, Afghanistan. Would the editors of the New Yorker let slip the phrase “at Fenway Park in New York”? I don’t think so.