A Cord of Wood
My sister Leslie, who lives in southern West Virginia, sent me this response on the topic of changing seasons here in California.
> > We've ordered a cord of wood to get us through the winter
>
> Pathetic. Really!
And it's true that wintering on one cord of wood shows what a soft life we have here in the Golden State. Nine or ten cords of wood might see you through an upstate PA winter.
Bad weather is relative. Back in January, the hot-tub repairman was complaining bitterly to me about what a dreadful winter we were having. He had actually had to start wearing long pants instead of shorts. I couldn't work up a lot of sympathy for his plight.
I still vividly remember the terrible winters of the mid-1970s, when the temperature without wind chill got as low as 37 below zero (Fahrenheit — God knows what it would be in Celsius) and at one point, stayed well below zero for a month. In the late 1980s, there were plenty of winter days in the 20-below range. Later, there was the dreadful Philadelphia ice-storm winter: from January to April one year, we had 17 major ice storms. I can deal with snow, I can deal with cold, but ice storms are bloody dangerous, and I was terrified for Billy every day. I've dug out of blizzards, hid in the cellar from a tornado and raced another down the northeast extension of the PA Turnpike, watched trees come down in windstorms, taped the windows against hurricanes, counted the seconds between the thunder and the lightning. No question, the northeast can kill. Every bad storm has its casualty.
Here we have fires, droughts, the Santa Ana wind, and earthquakes. When people die from the weather, they die in batches. I could never understand why Michele didn't get the Weather Channel on her cable service when she lived in the LA area. Then I discovered that prediction wasn't a big issue there. Most days the weather didn't vary, and when it did the destruction was likely to make national television.
Saturday, October 12, 2002
Friday, October 11, 2002
We Did Get Fooled Again
From Slate's hilarious page of Bushisms:
"There's an old saying in Tennessee—I know it's in Texas, probably in Tennessee—that says, fool me once, shame on—shame on you. Fool me—you can't get fooled again."—Nashville, Tenn., Sept. 17, 2002
The Bushisms seem to be of four basic types:
1. Problems with basic grammar, especially subject-verb agreement. My favorite: "Rarely is the question asked: Is our children learning?"—Florence, S.C., Jan. 11, 2000
2. Freudian slips. "If you're sick and tired of the politics of cynicism and polls and principles, come and join this campaign."—Hilton Head, S.C., Feb. 16, 2000
3. Blithering idiocies. "For a century and a half now, America and Japan have formed one of the great and enduring alliances of modern times."—Tokyo, Japan, Feb. 18, 2002
4. The terrifying revelation of his inmost attitudes. "When I was coming up, it was a dangerous world, and you knew exactly who they were," he said. "It was us vs. them, and it was clear who them was. Today, we are not so sure who the they are, but we know they're there."—Iowa Western Community College, Jan 21, 2000
I'm posting this in honor of our Congress's giving its gracious permission to Bush to invade Iraq if he feels like it. Naturally, being the cynical old liberal I am, I suspect that we're watching the tail wag the dog again. My position was perfectly summed up by this New Yorker cartoon from a few months ago.
Getting to know Dubya, though, has solved one enduring political mystery for me. With a son like him, no wonder Bush Senior thought Dan Quayle would make a perfect political heir apparent.
From Slate's hilarious page of Bushisms:
"There's an old saying in Tennessee—I know it's in Texas, probably in Tennessee—that says, fool me once, shame on—shame on you. Fool me—you can't get fooled again."—Nashville, Tenn., Sept. 17, 2002
The Bushisms seem to be of four basic types:
1. Problems with basic grammar, especially subject-verb agreement. My favorite: "Rarely is the question asked: Is our children learning?"—Florence, S.C., Jan. 11, 2000
2. Freudian slips. "If you're sick and tired of the politics of cynicism and polls and principles, come and join this campaign."—Hilton Head, S.C., Feb. 16, 2000
3. Blithering idiocies. "For a century and a half now, America and Japan have formed one of the great and enduring alliances of modern times."—Tokyo, Japan, Feb. 18, 2002
4. The terrifying revelation of his inmost attitudes. "When I was coming up, it was a dangerous world, and you knew exactly who they were," he said. "It was us vs. them, and it was clear who them was. Today, we are not so sure who the they are, but we know they're there."—Iowa Western Community College, Jan 21, 2000
I'm posting this in honor of our Congress's giving its gracious permission to Bush to invade Iraq if he feels like it. Naturally, being the cynical old liberal I am, I suspect that we're watching the tail wag the dog again. My position was perfectly summed up by this New Yorker cartoon from a few months ago.
Getting to know Dubya, though, has solved one enduring political mystery for me. With a son like him, no wonder Bush Senior thought Dan Quayle would make a perfect political heir apparent.
Tuesday, October 08, 2002
Friday, October 04, 2002
Update: California Burning
The fire is out, for those of you who have been following the Uvas Canyon blaze that has recently made breathing such an adventure in my neighborhood. While it was burning, I would go outside, inhale the fragrance of burning leaves, and think instinctively, "Oh, it's fall!" Which it is, technically, but in California, that evocative fragrance doesn’t mean kids raking leaves onto a small bonfire. It means firefighters battling vast blazes.
Even here, though, there is a tiny hint of color in some of the maples. The days are getting shorter, and the harvest moon was beautiful to see. We’ve ordered a cord of wood to get us through the winter; the wood stove is our primary source of heat, since the house is heated by overpriced electricity. Through the winter, we can expect plenty of rain, daytime temperatures in the sixties, and nights down in the high forties. The Bay Area really does have a heavenly climate, though down in the valley the summers are too hot for my taste.
This perfection does breed a certain attitude in the natives, though. I carpool to work most days with a guy named Ed, who doesn’t believe in the charms of a more extreme climate. As he once said, “I won’t go anywhere that there’s weather.”
I confess, I too have an attitude. I keep catching myself thinking: How can there be Christmas out here? There isn't any snow.
The fire is out, for those of you who have been following the Uvas Canyon blaze that has recently made breathing such an adventure in my neighborhood. While it was burning, I would go outside, inhale the fragrance of burning leaves, and think instinctively, "Oh, it's fall!" Which it is, technically, but in California, that evocative fragrance doesn’t mean kids raking leaves onto a small bonfire. It means firefighters battling vast blazes.
Even here, though, there is a tiny hint of color in some of the maples. The days are getting shorter, and the harvest moon was beautiful to see. We’ve ordered a cord of wood to get us through the winter; the wood stove is our primary source of heat, since the house is heated by overpriced electricity. Through the winter, we can expect plenty of rain, daytime temperatures in the sixties, and nights down in the high forties. The Bay Area really does have a heavenly climate, though down in the valley the summers are too hot for my taste.
This perfection does breed a certain attitude in the natives, though. I carpool to work most days with a guy named Ed, who doesn’t believe in the charms of a more extreme climate. As he once said, “I won’t go anywhere that there’s weather.”
I confess, I too have an attitude. I keep catching myself thinking: How can there be Christmas out here? There isn't any snow.
Thursday, October 03, 2002
Things You Don’t Want to Hear Your Doctor Say
• “Can you still feel that? Really?”
• “Hmm, interesting.”
• “Hey, where did it go?”
• “My God, it has roots. Look, nurse. Look how deep it goes.”
• “Interesting.”
• “I’m going to have to dig a little deeper.”
• “Let’s see how much I can get out.”
• “This is really interesting.”
• “I’ll have to extend the incision.”
• “Here’s another chunk.”
• “Bizarre.”
• “Don’t we have any 3-0? I’m going to need something heavier to stitch this together.”
• “I’ve never seen anything like this is my life.”
• “Wait a minute, weren’t you the one who had a lipoma or something in your abdomen?”
• “Now, remember, the scar isn’t going to end up looking like the incision looks.”
• “Well, whatever it is, I got it all out.”
Which were, word for word, the things my surgeon said this afternoon. Not all the things she said; we also discussed Stephen King and Carole King and the way I used to say “Interesting!” when I was doing a Tarot reading for someone. (Drove the clients crazy.) There was some dialogue of the usual “Please hand me the cautery knife” and “Thanks for taking care of the sharps” kind. Oh, and of course I was a good patient and checked to make sure they had seen the ultrasound done during the visit to the Urgent Care Clinic. (They hadn’t; they went to look it up on the computer, but all they found was the interpretation: it wasn’t a clot.)
The Lump had shrunk considerably, and apparently it made a spirited attempt at escape at the first incision. I did get to see it: pink and wet and wrinkled and yes, with roots. I’ll know next week what it is.
Though much of the operation was conducted in a pleasant, bantering atmosphere, it was still hard to go through. Originally they said it should take no more than 5 minutes, start to finish. It took 45 minutes, though, and the next patient was considerably delayed. I don’t mind blood, but I disliked smelling the cautery knife scorching my flesh — not, as you might think, the smell of sizzling hamburger, but much more like burned hair. Worst of all, the radio was playing the Back Street Boys.
Also, the local anesthetic was really local, and the probing and cutting kept going past the edge of the numb places. (Yes, I did mention that, after the first couple of times, and yes, they kept adding more anesthetic.) Also, though they tried numbing the skin with a cream first to make injecting the anesthetic less painful, it didn’t kick in as fast as they’d hoped, and I ended up feeling the half-dozen needles of fiery local jabbing into my flesh.
That’s the physical and objective experience. The subjective was worse, at least at the beginning. Because I was, once again, lying there waiting to be sliced open. Medical procedures hit me in a deep, ancient, terrible place, a place of helplessness and pain and betrayal. Thus the wisecracking, the questions, the general cheeriness. I had to remember — actively remember through what I said and did — that I *could* speak, that if I let them know the anesthetic wasn’t working that they would do something. That I was not helpless.
Knowledge and mordant humor have always been my weapons against helplessness. And stories; telling it this way, now, I am releasing the pain, expressing it as I would express snake venom from a wound.
Anyway, what’s left now is a sewn-up incision that’s starting to hurt like hell. I came home and slept hard for three hours, then got up to eat supper with the family. It’s Paul’s birthday, so we had his favorites: steak, baked potatoes, Brussels sprouts, mushrooms. I skipped the steak, of course. Now I’m off to have some birthday pie with the family while Paul opens his presents.
• “Can you still feel that? Really?”
• “Hmm, interesting.”
• “Hey, where did it go?”
• “My God, it has roots. Look, nurse. Look how deep it goes.”
• “Interesting.”
• “I’m going to have to dig a little deeper.”
• “Let’s see how much I can get out.”
• “This is really interesting.”
• “I’ll have to extend the incision.”
• “Here’s another chunk.”
• “Bizarre.”
• “Don’t we have any 3-0? I’m going to need something heavier to stitch this together.”
• “I’ve never seen anything like this is my life.”
• “Wait a minute, weren’t you the one who had a lipoma or something in your abdomen?”
• “Now, remember, the scar isn’t going to end up looking like the incision looks.”
• “Well, whatever it is, I got it all out.”
Which were, word for word, the things my surgeon said this afternoon. Not all the things she said; we also discussed Stephen King and Carole King and the way I used to say “Interesting!” when I was doing a Tarot reading for someone. (Drove the clients crazy.) There was some dialogue of the usual “Please hand me the cautery knife” and “Thanks for taking care of the sharps” kind. Oh, and of course I was a good patient and checked to make sure they had seen the ultrasound done during the visit to the Urgent Care Clinic. (They hadn’t; they went to look it up on the computer, but all they found was the interpretation: it wasn’t a clot.)
The Lump had shrunk considerably, and apparently it made a spirited attempt at escape at the first incision. I did get to see it: pink and wet and wrinkled and yes, with roots. I’ll know next week what it is.
Though much of the operation was conducted in a pleasant, bantering atmosphere, it was still hard to go through. Originally they said it should take no more than 5 minutes, start to finish. It took 45 minutes, though, and the next patient was considerably delayed. I don’t mind blood, but I disliked smelling the cautery knife scorching my flesh — not, as you might think, the smell of sizzling hamburger, but much more like burned hair. Worst of all, the radio was playing the Back Street Boys.
Also, the local anesthetic was really local, and the probing and cutting kept going past the edge of the numb places. (Yes, I did mention that, after the first couple of times, and yes, they kept adding more anesthetic.) Also, though they tried numbing the skin with a cream first to make injecting the anesthetic less painful, it didn’t kick in as fast as they’d hoped, and I ended up feeling the half-dozen needles of fiery local jabbing into my flesh.
That’s the physical and objective experience. The subjective was worse, at least at the beginning. Because I was, once again, lying there waiting to be sliced open. Medical procedures hit me in a deep, ancient, terrible place, a place of helplessness and pain and betrayal. Thus the wisecracking, the questions, the general cheeriness. I had to remember — actively remember through what I said and did — that I *could* speak, that if I let them know the anesthetic wasn’t working that they would do something. That I was not helpless.
Knowledge and mordant humor have always been my weapons against helplessness. And stories; telling it this way, now, I am releasing the pain, expressing it as I would express snake venom from a wound.
Anyway, what’s left now is a sewn-up incision that’s starting to hurt like hell. I came home and slept hard for three hours, then got up to eat supper with the family. It’s Paul’s birthday, so we had his favorites: steak, baked potatoes, Brussels sprouts, mushrooms. I skipped the steak, of course. Now I’m off to have some birthday pie with the family while Paul opens his presents.
Wednesday, October 02, 2002
The Snow Man
One must have a mind of winter
To regard the frost and the boughs
Of the pine-trees crusted with snow;
And have been cold a long time
To behold the junipers shagged with ice,
The spruces rough in the distant glitter
Of the January sun; and not to think
Of any misery in the sound of the wind,
In the sound of a few leaves,
Which is the sound of the land
Full of the same wind
That is blowing in the same bare place
For the listener, who listens in the snow,
And, nothing himself, beholds
Nothing that is not there and the nothing that is.
—Wallace Stevens
posted in honor of the author's 123d birthday
One must have a mind of winter
To regard the frost and the boughs
Of the pine-trees crusted with snow;
And have been cold a long time
To behold the junipers shagged with ice,
The spruces rough in the distant glitter
Of the January sun; and not to think
Of any misery in the sound of the wind,
In the sound of a few leaves,
Which is the sound of the land
Full of the same wind
That is blowing in the same bare place
For the listener, who listens in the snow,
And, nothing himself, beholds
Nothing that is not there and the nothing that is.
—Wallace Stevens
posted in honor of the author's 123d birthday
Equal-Opportunity Scum
In the spirit of justice, I wish to announce:
Bob Torricelli (D, NJ) is a greedy, lying, whiny fool.
I just don't see the point of sectarian squabbling. The real struggle isn't Republicans versus Democrats, or even politicians versus people, though there are days that seems to be the case. It's each of us against our own willingness to exploit others. And yeah, I know I'm being judgmental here. For all I know, Torricelli is a sterling character in every other way. But jeez!
In the spirit of justice, I wish to announce:
Bob Torricelli (D, NJ) is a greedy, lying, whiny fool.
I just don't see the point of sectarian squabbling. The real struggle isn't Republicans versus Democrats, or even politicians versus people, though there are days that seems to be the case. It's each of us against our own willingness to exploit others. And yeah, I know I'm being judgmental here. For all I know, Torricelli is a sterling character in every other way. But jeez!
I Would Feel So Much Better If I Thought This Story Was Satire
The Onion | Bush Seeks U.N. Support For 'U.S. Does Whatever It Wants' Plan
The Onion | Bush Seeks U.N. Support For 'U.S. Does Whatever It Wants' Plan
Tuesday, October 01, 2002
Writing Well Is the Best Revenge
Dorothy Allison at the Maui Writers’ Conference, as reported by Pat Holt:
"I tell each of these writers, 'I believe in the power of storytelling to give you a shape to your own life that you can stand. I believe in what it means to have no loved version of your life but the one you make. And I believe in writing that allows you to become the hero — not just survivor — of your own experience.'
"Working with young writers who have never had a childhood or adolescence, sometimes I tell them, 'The thing you need to do is write it, then step outside of it and look back at it.'
"This is part of the nuts/bolts section of a writers conference. I believe in writing for revenge and the hope of justice — hell, justice is simply revenge cleaned up.”
. . . .
"Before I'm done I'm going to make them write this same story in the voice of the person who hurt them most. I'm going to make them look out of the eyes of evil. Why? My mama nature would never allow me to do this to a grown woman or man or child or dog. But I'll do it to someone who wants to be a writer. Because I know no other way to get far enough out of the story — your real, lived experience — and make it over."
. . . .
Part of why we love books is when we read something that makes us weep and sing. When we are completely devastated but still convinced of the power and joy of life.
"The very best stories — the very best translations of the real — touch that place where we can barely stand it. But when we do stand it, we are taken to a new place, and I as a reader want always to be taken to that new place."
Dorothy Allison at the Maui Writers’ Conference, as reported by Pat Holt:
"I tell each of these writers, 'I believe in the power of storytelling to give you a shape to your own life that you can stand. I believe in what it means to have no loved version of your life but the one you make. And I believe in writing that allows you to become the hero — not just survivor — of your own experience.'
"Working with young writers who have never had a childhood or adolescence, sometimes I tell them, 'The thing you need to do is write it, then step outside of it and look back at it.'
"This is part of the nuts/bolts section of a writers conference. I believe in writing for revenge and the hope of justice — hell, justice is simply revenge cleaned up.”
. . . .
"Before I'm done I'm going to make them write this same story in the voice of the person who hurt them most. I'm going to make them look out of the eyes of evil. Why? My mama nature would never allow me to do this to a grown woman or man or child or dog. But I'll do it to someone who wants to be a writer. Because I know no other way to get far enough out of the story — your real, lived experience — and make it over."
. . . .
Part of why we love books is when we read something that makes us weep and sing. When we are completely devastated but still convinced of the power and joy of life.
"The very best stories — the very best translations of the real — touch that place where we can barely stand it. But when we do stand it, we are taken to a new place, and I as a reader want always to be taken to that new place."
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