This Old House - Part 2

 

We were committed. Our offer and deposit had been accepted and we were “pre-approved” for a loan. Next steps were getting an appraisal, a pest and home inspection, filling out the loan paperwork, and waiting. Agonizing waiting. Everything had to go through, we had no options. It was either Spring Street or a campsite under a bridge.

The pest report only called out water damage from a leaking shower pan in the downstairs bathroom, my bathroom. The whole house inspection was a horror story, pages filled with diagrams, red arrows, underlined passages, and exclamation points. We decided to ignore it. The roof was sound and that was what we needed: a roof over our heads. The house had stood for 131 years. Realistically, Colleen needed only 30 more. Inexplicably, but fortuitously, the appraisal came in where we needed it.

I’m not sure what “pre-approved is supposed to mean – in our case it meant nothing. We completed piles of paperwork, submitted them, and then the lender wanted proof my retirement income would continue until my death. I provided statements demonstrating it was adequately funded, 1099’s, photocopies of bank accounts, and nothing seemed to satisfy. They wanted a statement declaring my employer promised to pay until my death. I had no such thing, but I did have a 122-page document describing IBM’s several pension plans, although it did not specify which was my plan. I submitted it. I’m sure no one read it or understood it, I certainly hadn’t. But the lenders gave in and approved the loan.

The clock was ticking, we were on tenterhooks, but we were ready, all documents were signed and delivered to the title company. The seller just had to submit his package and escrow could close. But he didn’t. He suffered a stroke on a Friday afternoon and lay in a coma on life support in the hospital. He was single, his only relative was his 86-year-old feeble mother. If he died, we were doomed. Our only hope was that he would live and that his mother could quickly gain guardianship. Prayer warriors were summoned, and he did live. Monday morning his mother applied for guardianship; the court was cooperative and rushed it through. And we exhaled. The deal closed; we gained title, for better or worse.

Colleen moved in immediately, just as her lease was running out. The work on the shower had not been completed, so my move was delayed. However, my landlord graciously extended my occupancy a couple of weeks. The bathroom repairs proceeded. Tile was removed from the floor and the bottom 12 inches of the shower wall to access and remove the shower pan. The demolition revealed that the shower pan was intact, the pest report was erroneous, and there had been no need to replace it. However, it was replaced, and the stall was now ready for use.

Because the old toilet in the same bathroom was too low for my comfort, it was removed, and a new slightly taller model installed.

In the meanwhile, dear friends painted my bedroom. The oppressive dark green wall and the ceiling now soothed me with a beautiful shade of sky blue, complemented by the soft pink of the remaining walls. It looks clean and gentle, like a baby’s room, making me feel safe and warm.

Just as we were unpacking and settling in, a letter arrived from our homeowner’s insurance company demanding we make several repairs to keep our policy in force, or it would be cancelled July 7, just two months away. We were told our decayed front steps, porch, and the balustrade that was held together with chicken wire had to be replaced; the broken stained glass in the front door fixed, some rotten siding dealt with, and the dead ivy and tree limbs overhanging the house removed. Time was short and so were our finances.

Fortunately, Colleen was on sabbatical from her job at Blue Shield. When she was not working at getting settled, she was engaged in volunteer work with the homeless of our community. Many of the unhoused men were highly skilled and willing workers. They became our labor pool.

70-year-old Floyd rebuilt our front stairs, porch, and balustrade. He wasn’t homeless, but he was desperately impoverished and eager to earn some money. Summer heat was merciless, temperatures reached 110 degrees, often too hot to work outdoors, especially for someone his age and with a history of TIAs. The quality of Floyd’s work was beyond reproach, but the pace was agonizingly glacial. I harbored an unspoken fear he would suffer heat stroke before finishing the job. We kept him hydrated and fed, and we prayed. And he delivered.

 As we were prioritizing home repairs, sewage seeped into our basement. The insurance company demands had to take a back seat to this emergency. The drains were snaked out, but only a trickle made it through the system. After days of trying all sorts of chemical and poking maneuvers, it was apparent that the sewer pipes were ruptured somewhere along the line. It seemed obvious that roots of the huge sycamore tree lurking in the front yard had invaded the system.

Again, Colleen employed a couple of her acquaintances -- skilled handymen with strong backs and empty wallets. Digging out the leaking sewer line was a nasty job. We soon dubbed the hole in the front yard the poop pit. The effort involved much more than simply digging; roots as big as the largest limbs overhead had to be sawed through and removed – some weighed as much as 100 pounds. And there were large rocks as well. The ancient terra cotta pipe was a shambles.

We sparingly used the toilets. Water from the dishwasher, shower, and laundry flowed through easily. On a daily basis, it was necessary to access the broken pipe in the poop pit and use a hose to flush the sewage into the main.

The digging began at a point near the front edge of our property. The pipe went under the sidewalk and joined the main somewhere in the middle of the street. The city of Placerville informed us we were responsible for everything up to the main, even though it ran through city property. So, as work progressed, the poop pit became a poop tunnel, all excavated manually in the summer heat. Six feet deep and twice as long, the hole could accommodate a couple of bodies. Possibly insurance adjusters. After two months of living with an open sewer, the main was reached; roots, rocks, and terra cotta shards were removed, and PVC pipe was installed.

In the meanwhile, work continued on the insurance company’s demands. Rotten siding was replaced, the stained-glass window repaired, dead ivy still clung to the house and the tree limbs of the evil sycamore tree drooped over the roof. The house needed paint – the new porch and replaced siding were bare, the ivy destroyed the paint, and the house was an icky shade of dirty yellow, like a mixture of mustard and mud. This time we called in the pros. They had the scaffolding and ladders needed to reach 30 feet where the ivy clung. Days of scraping and power washing preceded the application of the beautiful sea-foam green paint. Dark green, white, and a burnt orange front door accented the decorative Victorian details that made the house worthy of Placerville’s Registry of Historic Homes.

On July 4^th, just 3 days short of the insurance company’s deadline, the tree in the front yard came down. Again, a couple of Colleen’s underemployed acquaintances signed on to the job. Bob was a certified arborist who had difficulty managing his life and his business. But he had tools, skill, and the need for cash. Until that day, I had never thought of tree felling as a spectator sport, but I was enthralled. The removal was challenging. Picket fences extended north and south from the trunk; immediately to the east was the sidewalk and busy Highway 49. Overhead utility wires were laced through the heavily leaved branches and the house with many windows was due west. The tree had to come down limb by limb with Bob climbing into the highest reaches more than 30 feet off the ground. While still on the tree, limbs had to be cut with a chainsaw into small enough pieces to be carefully lowered with pulleys and ropes, threading through the utility wires. And all of this in 110-degree heat. The tension and anticipation of horror I experienced evoked my memories of the bull fight I had seen in Mexico City. Like the bull, the tree had met its match, and Bob was in my eyes, a more glorious victor than any matador.

 

Topless Club Sandwich

You’ve probably heard of the sandwich generation, the group in the middle still raising kids while taking care of aging parents. Well, I was a club sandwich, taking care of two generations older than me and two generations younger.

My grandfather became homeless at the age of 92 when his house burned down in the Oakland fire of 1991. He lost everything. I was living alone in a four bedroom house, so he and his girlfriend moved in. Not only did he need someplace to live, but he needed help dealing with settling his insurance claims, replacing lost documents, building a new wardrobe, managing his health care, and buying a replacement car. Yes, he was still driving.

My mother, his only child, was suffering from dementia. She had gone downhill after the death of my father in 1984, so I took over managing her life and care in a nearby facility. I tried having her live with me, hiring people to assist, but she was insufferable. She refused to let caregivers do their job. She wouldn’t eat food they prepared, wouldn’t allow them to bathe and dress her, and wouldn’t go to doctor’s appointments without me. To preserve my sanity, I placed her in a care home in 1990, but still managed her affairs, took her to medical visits, and spent time with her.

Late 1992, my beloved brother was dying of AIDS in Issaquah, Washington. Providing respite to his partner by sharing caregiving, I flew to Washington from San Jose on Friday afternoons and returned Sunday evenings. Ken died in January, 1993 and I served as executor of his estate with all its concomitant duties.

Later in 1993, my younger daughter’s marriage failed.  Her ex-husband left the state and provided no support for her or their three kids. I could not bear to see them suffer; I needed to know they were safe. So the four of them moved into a house down the street from where I lived. I provided rent, transportation, baby-sitting, and pre-school tuition.

And I worked full time as a technical writer for IBM.

When my brother and grandfather died in 1993, I came into a small amount of money. I knew I had to use some of it to bring a little fun into my life. Taking a long hard look at the way I spent my time and the towering responsibilities I still shouldered, I realized driving was the most fun I had during those dreary days. I loved driving: the isolation, the time to myself, singing out loud, drumming on the steering wheel, and forgetting about the difficult reality of my day-to-day life. I was still locked into taking care of my mother, my daughter, and my grandkids, so my escape would have to be limited to the time I spent in the car. But, I could make it a lot more fun. I could do it in a convertible.

At the age of 54, I walked into a Toyota dealership and plunked down cash for a white Celica GT convertible. It was sweet, with a big smile for a grill across the front of it, demure retracting headlights,  a sexy spoiler on the rear, grey leather seats, and a black rag top. The first few days I was afraid to think about what I had impetuously done. I continued driving my SUV while the convertible huddled in the garage. From time to time, I opened the door from the kitchen to the garage, saw that it was really there, and closed the door wondering what in hell had possessed me.

Before long, my daughter’s car died and I gave her my SUV. The convertible became my only car. I began to realize I could do more than just drive to and from work; I gradually worked up courage and took off on weekends. My favorite getaways involved driving the California coast, especially the Big Sur coast down to Morro Bay and back. I processed grief and solved many of the world’s problems on those solo trips. I had no desire for company. The freedom to stop, go, and meander with no consideration for anyone else and no one to take care of was so liberating. I never questioned whether the top would be up or down. It was down. Every weekend it wasn’t raining I took off. Cold weather didn’t stop me, top down, heater and radio blasting, I was free. Money bought me hours of happiness as I explored California topless.

During this time I was seeing a psychotherapist because I had so many tough issues to deal with. I couldn’t focus and sort out what I needed to do. My mind was a muddled mess. On the shrink’s suggestion, I took a month off work to get my head together. In retrospect, I know I resolved much more behind the wheel than I did in therapy. He expressed concern about my impulsive spending. I was worried about not having any fun.

Supporting my daughter in a separate household became unaffordable, so she and her three boys moved in with me. We were crowded in my 1500 square foot San Jose home and I began to consider other options. We decided to move from Silicon Valley to the Sierra Foothills, where I bought a large home with a huge yard and a swimming pool. I rented a room in Silicon Valley during the week and commuted to the hills on weekends. Again, driving became the best part of my week. I developed what I called Zen driving, where I effortlessly, but fully consciously, moved through the countryside on the 180 mile drive. Heavy traffic never bothered me. I saw as it as opportunity for more solitude and contemplation. As always, when in my magic convertible zone, I alternated meditation with singing, listening to classical music at a very high volume, and transporting myself in more ways than one.

One particular Sunday night, I was returning to Silicon Valley around 10:00 P.M.; there was virtually no traffic. A Strauss waltz blared from the speakers in the door while I waltzed down the highway, staying in my lane, but swinging from one side to the other as I counted out one-two-three, one-two-three. It took a while before I noticed the red light of a highway patrol car in my rear-view mirror. I pulled over and the patrolman approached my car. His first question was, “Have you been drinking?” I assured him I had not. He said he had observed me weaving within my lane, not crossing the line, so he wouldn’t cite me, but he wanted to know what was going on. He let me go with a recommendation that I restrict my waltzing to the dance floor.

During the time I owned my convertible, it suffered three injuries. The first was a sad encounter with a BMW driven by a distracted teenager. After a month in the repair shop and $13,000 worth of rehabilitation, it was nearly as good as new.

My beloved car suffered its second mishap on the morning of January 22, 1997, when my older daughter gave birth to her second son. I was so excited by the news, I backed into the garage door frame on my way to the hospital. The result was a small dent in the rear bumper which I left unrepaired. I thought of it as a birthmark.

My long distance commuting ended when I began telecommuting and anticipated retiring. Many days I didn’t even leave the home in the hills I shared with my younger daughter and her three boys. The convertible often stayed in the garage while my daughter drove our Suburban. My getaway drives became explorations of the Sierra mountain passes. I drove them all. My faithful wheels managed the 10,000 foot granite summits with ease. In the middle of October, 1999, golden Quaking Aspens shimmered, cowboys rounded up cattle grazing in high alpine meadows, and the first snowflakes fell on my unprotected head; it nourished my soul. 

By this time, my oldest grandson was 15, looking forward to getting his driver’s license, and hopeful that he would inherit my beautiful little car. He jumped the gun one day when he decided to take the convertible for an unauthorized spin. However, he was thwarted when, while still in the driveway, he banged the convertible into the Suburban. The damage to the Suburban was undetectable, but the Celica suffered a disfiguring blow to the right front quarter panel, and its left headlight could no longer retract. I couldn’t deal with it. The car had 120,000 miles on it, the threads on the rag top were showing signs of wear, and now this unsightly blemish. I decided to sell. I ran an ad and agreed to sell to the first respondent, a young man who planned to surprise his wife with a birthday gift. I sold it for about half what it was worth, but more important it went to another loving home.

Ken's AIDS Quilt Panel

 

Ken died in 1993. I participated the best I could in his end-of-life care, commuting on alternate weekends to Issaquah, spending every possible moment with him and offering respite to his partner, Peter Fraser. We spent the evening of January 3, 1993, with Ken at Seattle’s Bailey Boushay AIDS Hospice, watching him struggle to breathe, moistening his lips and mouth with glycerin lollipops, while his 80-pound skeletal body scarcely made a ripple in the light blanket covering him. We knew the end was near, but finally gave up our vigil and drove back to the condo to try to rest up for what we feared the next day would bring. We rode the elevator up to the third floor, unlocked the door and saw the light on the answering machine blinking like the flashing light on an emergency vehicle, semaphoring the inevitable message. No need to listen to the recording, we immediately knew. It was over. He was gone. Conflicted light feelings of release and the crushing weight of loss remain with me even now.

Ken was born when I was ten years old. Although he was my third brother, our bond was more than that of siblings. He was my own real live baby doll, and I adored him from the moment he was born. I dressed him, fed him, diapered him, and paraded him around the neighborhood in his baby buggy. He was precious to me and became more so as he developed into a bright, verbal, and creative little boy. I remember one morning; he got out of bed and came running into my room bursting with excitement. Bouncing on the balls of his feet, my three-year-old brother said, “Melody! I had a film last night!” and for the first time, he told me what he had dreamed. He never stopped telling me his dreams. When he was in his 40’s and living in Washington while I was in California, he would phone and tell me about his dreams. Or he might call to share the excitement of the first snow of the season. I was the first family member he told the devastating news of his HIV diagnosis. He was calm. I was hysterical. It seemed impossible and yet, inevitable, given the raging epidemic and his active gay life.

I remember his fear of abandonment when I got married. I was then 20 years old, and he was 10. During the ceremony with around 150 guests in St. Lawrence O’Toole’s Catholic Church, he cried out, “Melody! Don’t leave me!” And that was my cry on the day I learned of his diagnosis – a virtual death sentence.

His death ripped a huge hole in the fabric of our family. Sister Valery’s loss was profound. Three years younger than he, they became bonded playmates. They shared a magical childhood populated with a host of imaginary folks, some friendly and some wicked like Grassy Pill, a being who lived in hell which was near San Francisco; she was always making mischief. And there was the marshmallow lady, derived from the Nutcracker Suite, who took naughty children and stuffed them under her skirt where they were doomed to smell her stinky underwear. Ken and Valery shared secrets and fantasies in a world of their own.

In the months following Ken’s death. As executor of his bankrupt estate, I trudged through the requisite busyness: tax filings, insurance dealings, and distribution of his worldly goods. He was cremated and his ashes distributed among me, my sister Valery, and Peter. We held a memorial gathering for him in his hometown of Oakland and distributed mementos to his legion of friends. I kept a coffee mug which, 27 years later, is still in my rotation of cups used frequently.

Still, nothing seemed to adequately memorialize Ken. I wanted the world to know how special he was. I soon learned about the NAMES Project, also called the AIDS Memorial Quilt, and knew I had to make a commemorative panel. But then, life and other deaths got in the way, and my resolve dissipated. In the next decade, end of life care for my mother, my grandfather, my aunt, and ultimately my daughter absorbed my time. Upon the death of my daughter, I became the guardian of my four- and five-year-old grandsons. Responsibility for the boys was truly a gift. They were wonderful children, but I was an aging woman, a single grandmother tending to the needs of the boys and the exigencies of daily life.  My creative energy was drained, and the notion of a memorial panel was shelved.

By the time the boys were around 10 and 11, demands on my time for their care slackened. Hours during the day opened up while they were at school, and when at home they were occupied with friends, music lessons, and schoolwork. I began to feel my creative sap rising again and the desire to make a memorial panel for Ken come to the surface. I had a pattern, a drawing made a decade earlier by my niece, Hollis Blair. A plan of attack for the project began to fall in place: I bought the sewing machine needed to make the panel I envisioned. And who knew? Next, a trip to Home Depot and the purchase of a painter’s drop cloth, a sturdy canvas fabric that could withstand the handling it would receive as part of the AIDS Memorial quilt. I would use it as a foundation and backdrop for the design I intended to fabricate. With a supply of fabrics and a collection of photographs of Ken at hand, I was ready to dive in.

I dyed pieces of the canvas, one strip sky blue, one of grass green, and stitched them together making a three foot by six-foot rectangle, approximately the size of a grave. The design depicted a plant in eight stages of life, ranging from a sprout to a robust thriving flower and finally a wilted and dying scrap of vegetation. Pictures of Ken in corresponding stages of his life would bloom in the center of each flower. I spent days poring over old photos, stirring up wonderful memories – vacations, family Christmases, triumphant events in his life - so many joyous moments captured. There were hundreds to choose from and looking at each entailed time travel and a visit with Ken.

Ken's world expanded when he started school. The picture in the first bud on the quilt panel is his kindergarten class photo. He loved school and his teachers loved him. He formed many enduring friendships but never loosened his bonds to the family. He strengthened ties to the farther reaches of our kin through “All Things Relative”, a family newspaper, which he composed and distributed faithfully.

The picture in the second flower on the quilt is of him during his high school years in the 60’s – the height of the Beatles era. His hair was accordingly long, and his polyester shirts were of vibrant colors. He continued to gather witty, kooky, and bright friends, although he never had a serious girlfriend. He told me he just kept hoping he would meet the “right” girl. He remained closely engaged with the family and especially with his nieces and nephews. He committed to taking each to Disneyland as a tenth birthday gift. He and niece Hollis became partners in running the annual Bay to Breakers race in San Francisco for several years. Each niece or nephew would declare he was their favorite uncle.

After high school, he attended UC Berkeley, our father’s alma mater. While in his senior year at Cal, the Vietnam War draft lottery was implemented. His number was 5, meaning he was certain to be drafted. Because he feared being sent to war, he quit school, joined the Marines, and landed a desk position in Alameda, California. He had escaped the danger of being sent to the war zone and survived the daily personal terror of his homosexuality being discovered. The third flower shows him in his Marine uniform and at the peak of his physical fitness.

When he was discharged from the Marines, he returned to Cal Berkeley and completed a degree in Biology. He later decided a career in accounting would provide him a better income and so, he went back to school at SF State for an accounting degree and an MBA. The picture in the fourth blossom shows him at his prime, physically fit, comfortable with his sexuality, and with a firm footing on a career.

In the early ‘80’s, Ken was very active in the gay life of the San Francisco Bay area and everything that entailed, including carousing at bars in the Castro district and frequenting the bath houses. Every night was a party, and he was out, loud and proud. When the deadly reality of the AIDS epidemic became known, monogamous relationships seemed safer. The fifth plant shows that Ken has plucked a flower representing his choice of a partner.

Although gay marriage was not yet legal, he and Peter Fraser entered a committed union. Peter was employed by a Canadian airline and lived in Vancouver, B.C. while Ken was still living in Oakland. Maintaining the relationship required lots of travel and immigration was not an option for either of them. However, commute hours and distance were significantly reduced when Ken took a job based in Washington. He was able to buy a condominium in Issaquah, and they had much more time together.

But, by then, his HIV infection erupted, his health began to fade, and he had full blown AIDS. The sixth flower represents this decline. He was able to continue working for a couple of years before being racked by a cavalcade of AIDS-related illnesses. He suffered pneumocystis pneumonia, shingles, tuberculosis and blindness in one eye from herpes; his depleted immune system was powerless. Peter lovingly and steadfastly cared for him through one episode after another. The ravaging of his body is illustrated by the next to last plant.

The final flower represents his last days in the AIDS hospice.  He spent about six weeks in with wonderful compassionate care in that sorrow-filled place. I took some small comfort in knowing how many loved him and shared the agony of his death.  I found the suffering of so many young men, many dying alone and abandoned by their families almost beyond endurance. Frequent trips to the chapel, helped a little, but I truly felt as though a part of me had been sucked out, a sensation I can still feel in some measure today.

I am pleased that Ken’s panel is one of 48,000 that travels to be displayed around the country and that it was chosen to represent the month of July in the 2009 version of the annual AIDS calendar. This single panel is dwarfed in the largest piece of community art in the world. The entire quilt would cover 20 acres and weighs 54 tons. Still, it represents only a tiny portion of the 32.7 million who have died globally since the beginning of the epidemic. I believe the NAMES project has served to amplify AIDS awareness. I personally derived some comfort by making Ken’s panel. Sending it off in the mail felt like exhaling after holding my breath a very long time.

 

I 

Home Sweet Bed

 

In four months, I will be living someplace else. I don’t know where and I don’t know how much of my stuff I will be taking with me. And yet, I’m not especially concerned. One thing I am sure of, I will take my bed.

Nineteen years ago, my daughter, Robin, was murdered and I took custody of her four and five year old orphaned sons. In those early days, I felt like a burn victim, seared to my soul with grief and overwhelmed with responsibility; sleep was elusive.

Thanks to the tender empathy of my cousin, Connie Blair Brehm, for the past nineteen years, my bed has been a refuge, a place where I am comforted from my nearly unbearable pain. Just after Robin’s death, Connie asked if I would like to have Grandma’s bed. It had been in use at her home for the previous five years while she had been the caregiver and guardian of our Aunt Helen, the childless daughter of our mutual grandmother. Helen had moved to assisted memory care and no longer used her bed.

Mental images of the bed and 70 years of memories associated with it washed over me.  I had been in awe of the towering bedstead that stood in the small bedroom at Atlasta Ranch in Fallon, Nevada. It dominated the room where my grandfather slept. Although to my young self it seemed odd, my grandmother slept in a separate bed on the south porch of the house. The morning of August 2, 1953, while I was spending summer vacation with my grandparents, my grandfather suffered a fatal heart attack in that bed. My memories of the sad day are always illuminated with a mental image of him drawing his final breath. It’s a gentle and comforting image, graced with thoughts of all that had occurred in that bed which had served since the marriage of Minnie Pauline Nichols and Ernest William Blair on December 26, 1908, in Placerville, California.

The bed was purchased at Sloan’s in Sacramento, and shipped by rail to the first home of the newlyweds in Goldfield, Nevada. Conception and birth of my Aunt Helen in 1910, and of my father, Seward James “Bud” Blair in 1912, no doubt occurred in that bed while in Goldfield.

The bed and the family moved to Tonopah, Nevada, in 1918. In 1922, their third child, Ernest William “Bill” Blair, Jr. was conceived and born, though his birth was in a hospital.

In 1924, the household settled on Atlasta Ranch in Fallon, Nevada. After the death of my grandmother in 1973, the bed remained in Fallon with Aunt Helen until Alzheimer’s disease overtook her. In 1995, the bed and Aunt Helen moved to LaVerne, California, to be cared for by cousin Connie and Dieter Brehm. And there it remained until it was moved to my bedroom in El Dorado Hills, California.

In the past nineteen years, I have moved five times, always making sure my bed was the first thing put in place in the new house. And always, it symbolizes safety, security, refuge, and comfort. The golden glow of the oak suffuses my room with warmth. The seven foot tall headboard protects me while the carved and curving acanthus leaves on top symbolize the angel’s wings of my grandmother watching over and guiding me. The walls around me matter little, I am secure knowing I can lay myself down in my bed, wherever that may be.

Seward's Folly-- Part III

Widowhood did not become my mother. She had gone straight from her girlhood home to marriage and motherhood. She often spoke of her loneliness as an only child and vowed she would not inflict that loneliness on her children. Remembering the large family of one of her friends, she said every night was like a party at their house, something she strove to emulate with her own brood. But, once everyone had left home, the only party she attended was her private party with Jim Beam. 

After the death of my father, she tried desperately to hang on to the traditions she had so carefully developed while raising her family, but unfortunately, alcohol clouded her ability to pull it off. I remember one particular evening. She prepared a huge elaborate paella, made from pounds of expensive fresh seafood. She invited several family members and a couple who had been friends from the UC Berkeley days. When dinner time arrived, she brought the masterpiece to the table stone cold. She had forgotten to cook it.

My mother's friend pulled me aside and said, "Poor thing, you children have got to do something about her."

She was drinking heavily, I found cash register receipts from several different liquor stores listing all kinds of booze: bourbon, scotch, vodka, gin, rum, etc. She deluded herself into believing she needed to stock up for a party or to have a full bar available in case someone dropped in for a drink. I looked at her cancelled checks. Some days she was so shaky so could hardly write. We did have to do something.

We planned an intervention. We tricked her into coming to a facility in Half Moon Bay where we gathered in a room. In a meeting facilitated by a staff member, we told her how concerned we were for her, how we loved her, and wanted her to be the person we remembered, the one who was bright, funny, creative, and sober. She was outraged. Even though she had already been drinking that morning, she denied she needed help, and asserted that she could take care of herself. She made it clear we were trespassing in her private world.

The therapist said she had never seen such a strong-willed resistant person and after a couple of hours, we declared the intervention a failure and took her home.

No further parties occurred. I took over holiday dinners except for one Thanksgiving; we decided to have dinner at the Claremont Hotel in the Berkeley hills. When I stopped by to pick her up, she was in a bathrobe and nowhere near ready to go. I explained she needed to hurry as we had to stop and pick up her father (Bobo) on the way to dinner. She disappeared into her bedroom for a long time and when I went to check on her, she was still in her robe, shuffling through stuff in her room, but making no move to get ready. She was in a blackout, unaware I was there and that it was time to leave. When I tried to explain that we were late picking up Bobo, she just laughed and said, "Oh, Bobo doesn't care." I told her I was leaving in ten minutes with or without her. Ten minutes later, while she was still in her bathrobe, I left.

I did pick up Bobo and, although we were late, joined ten other family members gathered for dinner. About half way through dinner, an apparition appeared at the entrance to our small dining alcove, and it snarled at me, "Melody, how dare you! I will never forgive you." Fortunately, she had taken a cab, and not driven.

I think of my mother in paradoxical patterns; she was shy and introverted, thought of herself as a "private person", but she loved parties. She worked faithfully to make holidays and birthdays special to each of us. And I think she loved the release of inhibition from the alcohol that flowed freely on those occasions. Sadly, as she drank alone, she became reclusive and shut herself off from friends and family. She lived alone and in filth with a little dog who never went outside. Her one constant contact with the outside world was a phone call she made each morning to her father, to make sure he had made it safely through the night.

One morning, he called me to say he had not heard from her. Her telephone went unanswered. We both knew this was an ominous sign. I lived an hour away, in San Jose, but decided to leave right away to check on her. I hung up the phone, and called my son-in-law, Wes, arranging to pick him up to make the trip to Oakland with me.

Arriving in her driveway, we kicked our way through piles of fallen leaves to the locked front door. Looking under all the obvious places, empty flower pots and planters, decorative rocks and ceramic frogs, we found no key. Breaking a window in the still unfinished downstairs game room, Wes worked his way upstairs through trash, dirty clothes, and dog feces littering the green shag carpet, to open the front door. We made our way through the silent house to her bedroom while the dog, a filthy shaggy toy poodle, sniffed at our heels. She lay on a mattress that was askew, half off and half on the bed, her head seemed caught between the mattress and the headboard. She responded to her name with a groan, and we managed to get her to an upright sitting position. She seemed conscious, but unaware of her surroundings and with no sense of who we were, why we were there, what had happened, or anything else that would affirm that she was mentally present, so while I sat with her, Wes called 911.

She was admitted to the hospital and diagnosed with a brain bleed of unknown cause.

Comatose for several days, the initial outlook was grim. She was not expected to be able walk, talk, or participate in her own care. But, she did regain enough function to be able to live in assisted living for a number of years, an arrangement that brought her safety and was a relief to all of us who cared about her.

I assumed Power of Attorney and rented out Seward’s Folly. The rent money, along with her other sources of income, provided for her very comfortably the rest of her life. When she died, the mortgage-free house was sold, and each of the heirs received a nice little sum for indulging their own follies.

The Rock, I and II

Once upon a time, a long, long time ago, there was a rock, the same rock you see pictured above. A long time ago it was much smaller and it lived on a hillside west of where it now rests. It's larger now because it is covered with a painted coat of many colors somewhere between six and twelve inches thick judging by the depth of the fringe of paint drool at the bottom.

The rock, as it is eponymously known, was born on a grassy hillside just above what is now El Dorado Hills Boulevard during God-knows-what geologic era, created by some mysterious formative event. It began service as a community bulletin board sometime in the 1980's, after the opening of Oak Ridge High School in the unincorporated population center known as El Dorado Hills.

Over the years, the rock was decorated with either spray paint or by brush to celebrate holidays, birthdays, athletic competitions, and occasionally other personal events. At some point in the late 90's a decision was made to construct an apartment complex on the spot nature had for eons claimed as home for the rock. The community was advised that the rock would be smashed into pebbles and distributed on the hillside. The unincorporated, but not disorganized, community banded together and raised such a fuss that Doug VeerKamp, descendant of El Dorado County pioneers, and all around good guy, in tandem with the El Dorado Hills Bowman's Association, came to the rescue. With land donated by the archery association, and lots of heavy equipment available to Doug through his family's construction firm, the Volkswagen-sized rock was saved from what seemed like certain doom and transported across the street to a safe and convenient site. It was a fine moment for a community that wasn't even officially a city or a town.

Once safely ensconced on its new resting place, it resumed service announcing birthdays, victories, tragic losses, and all the momentous events of life. And then 9/11 happened. The rock was beautifully outfitted with a glorious and patriotic rendition of the stars and stripes. So momentous was the event and so beautiful the work, that no one dared paint over it. It stood for many days as testimony to our shock, sorrow, and patriotism.  The muted community struggled to come to terms with the world-shattering events and secondarily, mourned the loss of use of the iconic rock as a bulletin board.

Again, Doug VeerKamp came to the rescue. Another similarly-sized rock was found and planted on the hillside a respectful distance north of Rock I. Rock I could now continue to commemorate 9/11 while Rock II took over community service. A noble concept, but it didn't last long. Before long, both rocks were painted regularly with personal messages, announcements, and declarations. Some locals were outraged, but the need for more messaging space was genuine. By this time, El Dorado Hills had grown from about 5,000 to around 20,000 people who had many things to announce, more than could be contained on a single rock.

And so, Rock I and Rock II continue to announce and celebrate special events. The community is divided into two kinds of people: those who have had their name painted on the rock and those who wish they had. And two other kinds: those who had painted the rock and those who intended to do so. I belonged in the second category in both cases. Because my Very Special Grandson, Logan, was turning 18, I seized the opportunity to join the ranks of the painters. I enlisted the help of my Very Special Grandson, Bill, and we planned to paint the rock. We learned much that is of probable interest and value to would-be rock painters. Here are some guidelines:

• Choose a simple design and simple color scheme.
• Do it in the daylight on a dry and wind-still day.
• Use spray paint, not buckets and paintbrushes.
• Plan on four cans of paint for the background and one each for any secondary colors.
• Allow two hours to complete the project, more if picnicking or drinking is involved.
• Wear old clothes. If more than two people participate, they will get overspray all over themselves.
• Take lots of progress pictures.
• Be nice when your masterpiece is painted over., 

 In the picture above, you can see the last salmon-colored remnant of the previous display. Very Special Grandson, Bill, and Doting Grandmother, Melody, have nearly finished applying a new white base coat over the earlier masterpiece.

 VSG finishes up while DG seeks shelter from the wild wind-driven overspray.

 VSG has completed the preliminary outline of the Polar Bear (never mind what it looks like, it's a POLAR BEAR!)

 VSG, Logan, AKA Polar Bear, lounges on a convenient ice-floe, and politically incorrectly enjoys global warming.

Rock II is on the left, Rock I reads HAPPY 4TH B-DAY (I didn't notice a name).

Notice the stalactites of paint formed at the bottoms of the rocks. On the right you can see weeds growing in the sheltered area near the fringe of paint. On the left you can see paint on the ground which has formed a thick solid coating. In some places you can break off chunks and see all the colored layers. I wish someone would take a core sample of both rocks so we could see just how thick the paint is.

Just in case anyone is interested, my birthday is April 18th, turquoise and purple are my favorite colors.

Note: this is my 500th blog post!

Obligatory, Late, and Final Dogwood Report

This year's photo of my Dogwood tree's blossoms is ten days later than usual for a couple of reasons. Spring is about two weeks later than usual and my enthusiasm is waning. But, here it is:

I had the tree severely pruned last fall, all the lower branches which were beginning to obstruct the walkway have been removed, so the tree now has a taller, thinner aspect than a typical dogwood. Here's a link to last year's picture taken ten days earlier. Notice in last year's April 18 picture the tree is already in leaf. This year, ten days later, the leaves are just beginning to appear. It's been a long snowy winter for this part of the country.

My enthusiasm is waning because in my heart, we have moved back to California.  We will be leaving on June 20, nine weeks from tomorrow. Logan will be travelling to Europe June 2-16 and as soon as he returns, catches his breath, and does his laundry, we'll be on the road. So much to do before that time! So much stuff to sort through and get rid of. So much packing and planning. So much overwhelm!

Logan has started a regimen of walking to build up his endurance for the trip. He is very determined to be able to participate fully. I'm excited for him. I think he has my wanderlust. While he's gone, I plan a quick trip to Charleston, South Carolina. South Caroline is the only state I haven't visited, so I want to check off one more item on my bucket list. Tomorrow evening I'm checking off another item. I'll report more on that next time.

Whirlwind Trip

Logan and I spent a very productive long weekend in California over Easter. We left Springfield on Friday, my 75th birthday. I celebrated by walking through airport security wearing a sweater and my shoes (and a few other articles of apparel), having just arrived at the age of privilege where such wild goings-on are tolerated by the folks at TSA. Nonetheless, Logan and I both had to endure patdowns because of our various metal body parts.

I drove our rental car (a Chevrolet of some sort that was nearly impossible to get in and out of because of the low entry)straight to Davis because I miss Ben too much and couldn't wait to see him. Well, I was able to wait just a bit -- Logan and I hit In and Out Burger before driving to the campus. I don't know why their simple classic burgers, shakes, and fries are so good, but nearly all California emigres drool at the thought of them. Many of the joys of moving back to California are retail related: Costco, Ikea, Whole Foods, Trader Joe's, In and Out Burger, REI (gift shopping for Ben), Crate and Barrel, Cost Plus, Williams-Sonoma, etc. I know these places exist in other parts of the country, but they are all close together and easily accessible from where we'll be living (and shopping).

Colleen and Robby met us in Davis and Ben "bought" all of us dinner loowith his student dining

commons card after we spent some silly time in my hotel room at the Aggie Inn. I spent the night in Davis while Logan went home with Robby and Colleen.

The next day Logan and I checked out the apartment we want to rent in El Dorado Hills. It is quite nice and conveniently located to retail (!) and family. Amenities of the complex include a pool, clubhouse, basketball court, dog park, washer and dryer in the unit, and three bedrooms which we will somehow squeeze into. I am so ready for this move.

Sister Valery and Jim Piper were married at Saturday noon. They said their beautifully-scripted vows on the beach at Negro Bar Beach on the American River and then we went to the nearby Sudwerks for lunch. The weather was sunny and mild and the very small select company sublime. 

 Colleen and Andy wait for the ceremony to begin while Susie Lee and I fool around taking each other's pictures. Susie (she calls herself Sue these days) and Valery have been friends all their lives, 61 years. Our families lived next door to each other.

 Logan made it down the stairs to watch the ceremony. He did amazingly well on the trip, schlepping through airports, sitting in cramped seats, sleeping on couches, and maneuvering over rough terrain.

 The bride and groom just before the ceremony, and (below) while exchanging vows.

 The happy couple hosting the reception at Sudwerks.

Valery shows off her wedding band while Jim proves he never grew up.

 Ben and Logan paid their respects to Missy while we visited Jim and Valery at their home after the wedding festivities.

 Silly cat at Valery's thinks Colleen placed this bowl under the table just for her comfort.

Silly Ben thinks this hammock was placed in Colleen's backyard just for his comfort. Valery looks on while he reads from an assigned book for one of his classes at UC Davis.

Today we are back at home and things are gearing up for our move. The house is listed and we have already had a couple of people express interest. One opted for another house, the other hasn't seen the house yet, but wants to have a big house in this neighborhood and ours is the only large house in our neighborhood on the market. 

Moving On

Logan and I will be moving to California this summer.We will be living in an apartment in El Dorado Hills to be near Colleen, Valery, friend Lisa, brother Rick and his wife, Kathy, Ben, and probably lots of other folks I forgot to mention. Logan will be able to finish high school with some of the kids he started kindergarten with/ He looks forward to trying his hand (feet?) at snowboarding with Danny as teacher. I am looking forward to the end of home ownership responsibilities.
So, that means I'm going to be very busy selling, trashing, and packing. I expect the new place will be around 1,000 square feet with no garage,, going down from 4,500 square feet with a three car garage. Big changes, welcome changes. Somehow, we'll bring it off.
Logan is healing well, although we are both suffering mightily from cabin fever. He is too old (and so am I) to be spending so many hours with me. It's exhausting and grueling for both of us.

Improvement

Today has been a really good day. Logan went to school for half a day and I experienced that euphoria that comes when your youngest child starts kindergarten. You know the kind of day you torture yourself trying to decide if:

1. You should run naked through a meadow whilst tossing daisies in the air, or
2. Stay in your jammies all day eating Godiva chocolates while reading bodice-bursting romance novels, or
3. Begin a movie marathon wherein you go by yourself to the movies, get a really big box of really buttery popcorn, and a slurpee, and milk duds and catch up on all the Oscar nominees you failed to see
4. Have a late champagne breakfast (does Dom Perignon go with with Cheerios?)
5. Meet your best girl friend for lunch and gossip and dis all the people you mutually feel superior to
6. Do your income taxes

Well, at least I've narrowed the list down to five items. I'm sure I'll get at least one of them accomplished today, but I have many days ahead to work on it.

Foot Notes

Today Logan's orthopedic surgeon told us Logan's foot is healing nicely. The dislocation is perfectly in place and the fracture is knitting just as it should. He is now cleared to bear weight on it as he continues to wear the boot cast. He tried walking without the walker and can manage limited distances. If the neurosurgeon clears him next Tuesday, we will go to California for Easter weekend.
We hated saying good-bye to Valery as she began her drive up to Kansas City to catch her flight back to California this evening. Her presence allowed me precious hours of respite spent with my quilting buddies and enjoying a glass of wine with friend Sharon. Valery  cooked, she cleaned, she cheered us up, took us out for meals and spread joy.
Kevin and Rachel came down Friday afternoon. It was great seeing them and seeing Rachel's hair starting to grow out. Support of my family has been so healing to both Logan and me during these very difficult weeks.

School Daze

Logan returned to school for a few hours yesterday. He took a big nap when he got home. Today we went back to the school and met with the counselors to decide how to get him caught up. He will probably continue attending as his strength allows and fill in with homebound instruction. He was very pleased to get his computer back today. It survived the accident with only a shattered screen which has since been replaced.
Today is Colleen's last day here. I will miss her, she made a lot of progress with those of us mired in emotional quicksand. Tomorrow Valery arrives to spend a few days. It will be very comforting to see her as well.
Logan enjoys getting out and about and is tired of lying around on the couch. Today we went to Lambert's (Home of Throwed {sic} Rolls). I hate that place but going there is a right of passage for visitors. Tonight we will go to the school play "Mulan." Aunt Krista Cronin is doing the makeup for the performance and I'm eager to see her creativity in action.
These reports on Logan's progress are kind of dull and smack of "How I Spent My Summer Vacation,"type essays, bereft of any demonstration of writing skill, but I know there are several of you concerned about Logan's progress and I want to keep all of you in the loop. So look forward to several more days of simple factual reporting.

The Trouble With Tribble

The trouble with Tribble is that he has only three legs. Kevin and Rachel adopted him after he had lost his right rear leg in an encounter with a car. It doesn't slow him down much. He is very adept at scrambling up onto high places by pulling himself up with his front feet. He's a bit clumsy and noisy, but very determined. He also has a voice that cannot be ignored. The "Awww" factor with this cat is very high so he gets lots of love and attention.Here he is resting on a quilt I finished while visiting Kevin and Rachel this week.

 I went up to Kansas City on Wednesday evening so I could go with Rachel to her chemo appointments on Thursday and Friday. Thursday's session was no problem. The chemo protocol for Friday is more difficult to tolerate and takes longer to administer. Rachel is such a good patient. She is taking very good care of herself and is doing everything she can to aggressively attack any unwelcome cells in her body. I'm sure she'll be victorious. The chemo had left her feeling a bit unwell Saturday morning when I left. She expects the effects to linger a few more days and then she will be feeling better by midweek.

Kevin is working in Mississippi for the next several months. He comes home Friday night and leaves on Monday morning. Every fifth week he spends at home. It is hard for him to be gone while Rachel is undergoing chemo, but they are coping pretty well.

I expect the holidays will be rather quiet around here. Ben will be in California for Thanksgiving and I think Danny is planning to be there also. Rachel and Kevin will probably not be with us as they will be avoiding travel and exposure to any unnecessary germs while Rachel's immune system is depleted from the chemo.

Reporting In

Robin would have been 52 years old today, but instead, she is forever 39. Like sister Colleen said today on Facebook, I wish I could have seen her red hair turn gray. I still cannot believe she is gone and yet I can't imagine what it would be like if she were here. I want so much for her to know the joy her boys have brought to me. There are so different from each other, so unique, yet both are amazing, wonderful kids.

Ben has dreamed of being an entomologist for nearly as long as he has lived with me. I think he went straight from paleontologist to entomologist when he outgrew the dinosaur phase. His grit and determination in gaining admission to UC Davis were all his own doing. I had hoped he would stay close to home for a few more years. Only when I realized he would never forgive me if I thwarted him, did I give in. His getting to Davis is entirely due to his grit and persistence. His focus is amazing. And now as I see him unfold, I'm pretty sure he was right.

Never a kid who was interested in what he wore, he found REI in California and for the first time developed an interest in shopping for clothes. He learned to dress in a way that expresses who he is -- outdoors clothing for the field-bound research scientist. He attended the Entomology Club Fall Social and seems to be enjoying that small community within the huge campus population. I was so afraid to let him go and yet he has navigated with confidence since leaving home. He does laundry, buys textbooks, gets into programs and activities that are important to him, deals with roommate issues, seems to be eating, sleeping, getting places on time, and living like an independent adult (except the money part, although he is frugal). Most important, he seems to have a good sense of who he is and where he is going.

Ben is smart, funny, introverted, literal, kind, logical, intense, and honest. He's an exceptional person and I believe he will make an important contribution in the field of entomology.

Logan is loquacious. He can chat up anybody. He's interesting, interested, funny, smart, personable, sweet, and extroverted. He loves to dress in business clothes -- suit and tie. He recently upgraded his backpack to a brief case and uses it to carry his books and school supplies. He likes speech and debate and belongs to the Literature Club at school. He is participating in the International Baccalaureate program at his school. It is a rigorous and challenging program and he is working hard at it.  Just a couple of days ago, he asked me to get him a subscription to The Economist. He wants to be a lawyer. He will be a good one.

The differences between the two boys fascinate me. So different and yet both so wonderful. Thank you Robin.

Overwhelmed and Losing it, Loosely Wrapped and Unraveling

I have been on the edge of hysteria for at least a week now. Well, that's not entirely true, at least three times I've gone over the edge and plunged into the depths. Life is really complicated right now and it requires lots of planning, coordination, and physical work. I need lots of help and as always, I have a tough time asking for it.
So far, I have blown up at Logan, Steve Maples, and my car. If any of the rest of you come into the line of fire in the next few weeks, please know I appreciate you being there for whatever reason and please know that if I blow up, it's probably about me, not you.

 What's eating me?

• I have to be ready for the movers on Saturday.
• Logan is also overwhelmed with balancing the demands of a job and the rigorous IB program at school. He spends every waking moment he is at home working on his school computer or with his nose in a book.
• Danny's hours limit his availability to help.
• Both boys are never available at the same time, so the two-man jobs aren't getting done.
• Rachel is constantly on my mind and in my heart. Chemo is not easy and she and Kevin have way too many stresses in their lives. 
• My physical strength is very limited. I can do only a small amount of work and then must rest.
• The Maples clan is all absorbed in grieving the loss of Julia's father and attending his funeral on the other side of the state.
• It's been bloody hot.
• I still have tons of sorting, selling, storing, and tossing to do.
• I miss Ben.

On the other hand:

• I'm so looking forward to living in a smaller, more manageable house.
• I can't wait to reduce my inventory of stuff (by sorting, selling, and tossing).
• The weather is pleasant. I don't think I've ever moved when the weather is decent -- it's always been during a terrible storm or a killer heatwave. 
• People are helping me.
• Most of the people I've offended will forgive me.
• This too, will pass.

In the meanwhile, I will practice as many avoidance techniques as I can muster:

• Blogging
• Re-reading a book from my childhood
• Playing solitaire mindlessly

I'm open to suggestions for any other distractions. 

Rachel's Endeavor

My cradle-snatching son, Kevin (now 49), wed Rachel Hall (now 37) on June 12, 2004, at Unity Church in Overland Park, Kansas. She left her family behind and moved into Kevin's house in Sacramento. Later, they sold that house and moved to Lenexa, Kansas where they live today with three cats and two dogs. It's a three and a half hour drive from my home in Ozark, close enough to get together for important occasions or when we just feel like it.

Here's Rachel at one of those important occasions that didn't occur at either of our homes. We all traveled to Cape Code in May of 2007 for the wedding of grandson Tom Paine and Nichole. A highlight of the trip was a mad shopping trip to Cubby's where we snatched up a couple dozen Cape Cod T-shirts. Rachel is modeling hers in the picture above.

This picture, my all-time favorite, was taken Christmas 2008. She has such beautiful skin and eyes, or in this case, eye. And she puts up with Kevin!

Here's a quilt I made for Rachel. It's king-sized (108" x 112"), made from reproduction Civil War era fabrics, machine-pieced and quilted by hand. 

 

Here's  a close-up of the quilting stitches (nine stitches to the inch). The quilting designs are all original, designed by me especially for this quilt.

And here's the label on the back of the quilt that tells a little bit about what it took to make the quilt. The million stitches and mile of thread refer only to the hand quilting and don't take into consideration all the stitches and thread involved in the machine piecing. All in all, it was quite an Endeavor.

But it is nothing compared to the endeavor Rachel is now undertaking. She was diagnosed with ovarian cancer around a month ago. She has had surgery and now is beginning chemotherapy.  The oncologist feels quite sure they got all of it with the surgery, but the chemo is to make certain it is all eradicated. The quilt is a symbol of the love and warmth I want to wrap her in during her endeavor.

STEPping into UC Davis

On a whirlwind trip to California last weekend, I delivered Ben to UC Davis. Leaving home Friday morning, I took a three-hop trip through Denver and Phoenix and arrived in Sacramento around 5:00 PM. and then headed to Valery's in my beautiful rented Chevrolet Traverse. I've been driving Japanese cars since 1981, but if I could afford a Traverse, I'd buy American again. That vehicle was amazingly comfortable and had so many convenient safety features. WANT! 

That evening, Colleen, Andy, and Robby brought us a great assortment of takeout food from Whole Foods (WANT Whole Foods nearby!) including some interesting vegan/vegetarian dishes for Ben. Robby is great at engaging with Ben and I love to watch and listen to them banter.

Saturday morning, Ben loaded the car and we struck out for Davis. We first went through a registration process where I had my first meltdown. The smiling person at the desk asked my name, and I fell apart. Great gulping sobs and rivers of tears -- the whole (water) works.

 Here's Ben's home away from home for the next four weeks. He's staying in a triple room, although there are only two of them occupying it for the STEP program.

Ben's roommate is from Atwater, California and seems to be a nice kid. I am hopeful that they will get along together.

I can't believe how tight the rooms are, they literally stack them in there -- note the bunk beds. There is a single bed behind Ben. Although Ben was the first to arrive, he graciously waited till Tyson showed up and allowed him to choose his bed first. Tyson opted for the single and Ben went for the lower bunk. Fortunately there is lots of open common space and lounge areas. This level of sharing is going to be a big change for Ben.

Campus food at Davis is nothing like the Army style grub I experienced in my college dining commons. Because Davis is an Agriculture school, a lot of the food served is grown right on campus. Ben is holding a bagel nearly as big as his face in the photo above and those bagels are part of the every day offerings in the platform-style dining commons.

Politically correct and delicious fair trade certified Starbuck's coffee is also part of the standard fare, along with a wide assortment of vegetarian, vegan, and gluten-free offerings. 

Eco-awareness is pervasive. You can't toss anything without considering the destination of the refuse. The trash buckets labeled "Landfill" are much smaller (and scarcer) than the various recycle bins around campus.

 

 And then there are the bicycles. On any given day during the school year, 20,000 bicycles are being pedalled around the nine-square mile campus.

Ben is participating in UC Davis's STEP (Special Transition Enrichment Program). This amazing program is designed for kids who may need extra attention in making the transition to college life. In many cases, these are kids who are aging out of foster care and they are most often of ethnic minorities. Ben was selected because of his status as an emancipated orphan. He is conspicuous in the group because of his red hair (the only red head among the 100+ kids) and his fair skin. Diversity is a bonus feature of the program for a kid who comes from very white community. In spite of his background, Ben seems to be culturally color-blind.

The four-week orientation includes mock college classes to prepare them for the real thing; priority registration, and loads of counselling. They remain identified as STEP kids throughout their undergrad years and everything is done to promote their academic success. Their grades are monitored and they are provided tutoring if necessary; they have access to an abundance of academic, financial, and psychological counselling services; and they continue to have access to priority registration throughout their time at Davis.

As part of the four week program, Ben is scheduled for one-on-one meetings with the chair of the Entomology department and with the head of the Bohart Entomology Museum. Ben has had contact with both of these people in the past, so these meetings should serve to clearly identify Ben to these people who will be important to him. Ben hopes to work at the museum and he wants to become part of a research team. Research-track  courses in the biological sciences are offered at UC Davis.

After spending a day on campus and learning much more about the program and the University, I am convinced Ben is in the right place.

I spent the night in a single room in a residence hall -- part of a four-room group sharing a  bathroom. Everything I needed was conveniently at hand. But, OMG, was it small! I could not shake the image of a prison cell and kept wondering what a life of incarceration would really be like. Just after falling into a deep sleep, the fire alarm sounded. Because it is still summer break on campus, the only occupants of the residence hall were half a dozen parental-type attendees of the STEP orientation. We all vacated our rooms and didn't know what to do. I finally called 911 (the calls go to the on-campus emergency services) and was told the fire department was responding. Of course, it turned out to be a false alarm, someone had "accidentally" leaned on the alarm button. Seems that I remember similar "accidents" occurring on a regular basis during my dormitory days. Some things never change.

(Sorry for the awkward formating of this post, blogger is being uncooperative this morning.)