Presidential Prior Restraint

Well, it's hit the fan now. In response to a New York Times story, President Bush has admitted to eavesdropping on suspected Al Qaeda operatives and sympathizers without the proper court-ordered warrants. He has assured us, however, that his actions weren't unlawful, but rather well within the bounds of his presidential privilege and, in fact, part of his sworn duty to protect the country from terrorists.

But controversy is swirling over this latest peek into the Bush White House. Some commentators are even reminding us that "abuse of power" was one of the counts Nixon would have faced back in 1974 had Ford not pardoned him and saved us all the bother of impeachment proceedings. I'm not a lawyer, so I suppose I shouldn't even try to weigh such matters, but it does strike me that spying on people without due process is at least as bad, presidentially speaking, as lying about fooling around with flirty White House interns.

Still, what upsets me most about this whole matter is that Bush was so concerned about keeping it secret he called the publisher and editor of the New York Times to the Oval Office to "ask" them not to tell anyone, as they finally did last week after an entire year. It's time to draw a line. Already, we've heard tales of Bushites planting upbeat stories in the Iraqi press. We know they've paid American journalists to write nice stories about them in U.S. papers and even planted pseudo-journalists in White House press conferences to be sure someone asked the "right" questions. But when a president sits down with the top executives of the nation's No. 1 newspaper and makes it very clear what he does or does not want to see in print, that's what real journalists call prior restraint.

Simply defined, prior restraint is suppression of the truth. It's the status quo in societies ruled by dictators, who must control the media in order to control the citizenry. But it is anethema in a democratic society, governed ultimately by an informed electorate. That's because prior restraint distorts our view of reality. If left uncovered, it will even distort the record of history, leading to untold ramifications as time goes on. In short, prior restraint of the media is a violation of the worst degree. And when it comes directly from the president's office, how else can we interpret it other than as an executive end run around the First Amendment to the Constitution. Which may do us all good to revisit: "Congress shall make no law respecting an establishment of religion, or prohibiting the free exercise thereof; or abridging the freedom of speech, or of the press; or the right of the people peaceably to assemble, and to petition the government for a redress of grievances."

So Pointless

It was another dog show weekend. Not as if I didn't have anything else to do but get up at 5 a.m. Saturday morning to bathe and dry a Newf, then drive to Long Beach and back two days in a row. But I've made a commitment now to pursue Charter's championship, and every show, win or lose, is good practice for the boy. Megan, his junior handler, did a superb job of handling and grooming, and the classes were small, so you'd think with so little competition, my Goliath son would've brought home the points. But alas, we could only manage a couple red ribbons and one reserve, which is to say, the consolation prize of dog shows. I honestly don't get it. No one is more critical than I about my own dogs' chances in the ring, and I say Charter should've won both days. But then I'm not the judge. It's just that for all the effort and expense, to come home essentially empty-handed just seems so, well, pointless.

Christmas is Coming; the Goose Is in the Fridge

Imagine my surprise yesterday morning to open the refrigerator door and find a big goose sitting among the milk and mustards. Well, not a live goose of course. A bagged, frozen goose, thawing in advance of Christmas dinner. Bob is obviously getting creative with the menu this year. But then I did the same with the tree, went out and bought new ornaments and roll after roll of velvet ribbon. It's amazing what you can find at K-Mart! You should see the results, a vision in burgundy and gold. Then there's the evergreen garland all around the big French doors in the living room, the pointsettias on the front porch, the lighted wreath hung high outside, the scented candles burning inside.

Today I stop by the post office for the last package drop, and tonight we wrap all the gifts the UPS man has been leaving at our doorstep. Tomorrow afternoon we'll be welcoming EK and Jeffrey and their pups. Lauren and Lilo, Margaret, Terri and John all arrive on Friday. The canyon is beautiful this time of year, especially in the long, low afternoon light. And at night it's so clear you can see Tijuana sparkling. We have never experienced this nuance of life in the backcountry. We first arrived in April, and the fire came only seven months later, in late October. So now, two years later, it is our first winter here, our first Christmas at Terra Nova. And we plan to savor every moment.

All We Are Saying ....

Twenty-five years ago today. He was young and seemingly invincible. One of the Beatles, for crying out loud. But he died anyway. And for no good reason. Shot down at point blank range in front of the New York apartment he shared with his wife, Yoko Ono, and their son.

More than 10 years later, when our Japanese friend Tomoko came to visit, we took her to New York City, and the one place she most wanted to see was the Dakota, site of John Lennon's murder. We had to go there, she said, and stand out front and sing "Imagine." It was a cold, cold day, but we went, we stood, we sang. Across the street, in the section of Central Park known as Strawberry Fields, we found the starburst stone embedded in the earth as a memorial to John, engraved with the one word: "Imagine."

"Imagine all the people, living life in peace." For my parents' generation, the concept of Americans and Japanese, touring New York as friends, would have existed only in the realm of imagination. So there is still hope. But mostly, even after 25 years, we find peace not in the world around us, but only in our imagination. And sometimes, if we are open to it, in our hearts.

Chamberpot of Horrors

"It matters how you finish." It's a saying Bob and I came up with while watching numerous individuals self-destruct after achieving great success. O. J. Simpson, for instance. Michael Jackson. Various and sundry CEOs, government leaders, members of the clergy. We look at them, at the mess they've made of their once enviable lives, the hurt and embarrassment they've inflicted on their loved ones, and we shake our heads at the needlessness of it all. They had everything going for them, and they threw it all away. Why? Now they'll be remembered not for their accomplishments, but for their lapses in judgment and conduct. It's not a new phenomenon by any means. Shakespeare made note of it in "Julius Caesar." "The evil that men do lives after them," he wrote. "The good is oft interred with their bones."

Our way of putting it isn't quite as literary, but it works for us, both as a commentary on the news and as a solemn reminder. It's human nature, after all, to make mistakes. So easy to rationalize a detour from the straight and narrow. We've all stood at the crossroads more than once. San Diego in particular has turned into a showcase for fallen heroes of late. Over the last year or so, we've discovered our elected and appointed officials have driven the city to the brink of bankruptcy. We've seen our mayor and two councilmen ousted in disgrace. It's gotten so bad the slogan "America's Finest City" has been deleted from the municipal Web site.

But last week we witnessed a public flogging that made all that's come before seem mundane. San Diegan Randy "Duke" Cunningham, a Vietnam era flying ace, Top Gun instructor and 15-year veteran of Congress, fessed up to taking $2.4 million in bribes from defense contractors in return for lucrative government contracts. It was a sorry spectacle to see "The Duke," still known for his fly-boy arrogance and bluster, standing before national news cameras, sobbing his apologies. At age 63, the man who claimed he was once the brash young fighter pilot Tom Cruise portrayed in "Top Gun," now faces up to 10 years in prison. So egregious, so reckless was his corruption that his attorney admitted he'd recommended a plea bargain because his client simply "had no defense."

The details of Cunningham's Humpty Dumpty fall from Capitol Hill are the stuff Leno and Lettermen live for. His take included a house in ultra-chic Rancho Santa Fe, free use of "The Duke-Stir," a yacht moored on the Potomac, a Rolls Royce (albeit a used one), a college graduation party for his daughter and various antiques, including a couple of 200-year-old French commodes. Not surprisingly, these last items have drawn the most attention in the national media, with uncouth AM radio jocks snickering about the Duke's penchant for antique "crappers" and even Newsweek offering the synonym "chamberpot." Isn't anyone going to point out that in design parlance, a commode is not a toilet, but a small chest of drawers?

But it does seem odd that the Dukester, known as a rowdy, fight-picking, cigar-chomping, skeet-shooting son of a gun, would care about antique French commodes of any sort. It makes me wonder what his wife role is in all of this. Maybe I'm just a budget control freak, but if Bob came home driving a Rolls Royce, used or not, pulled a French antique or two out of the trunk and suggested we start looking for property in Rancho Santa Fe, I'd start asking questions. It should be interesting to see how well Nancy Cunningham dodges the fallout from her husband's implosion. Hard to believe this will play well at the country club.

But enough time wasted on idle speculation. I have a deadline to meet, cappuccinos to steam and a book to write. Miles to go, as Frost put it, before I sleep. And I really want to finish well.

Update March 3, 2006: Today, admitting through tears that he'd "torn his life to shreds," Randy Duke Cunningham heard a judge sentence him to 100 months--that's 8 years, 4 months--in prison and then remand him into custody. The denouement made front-page headlines across the country. Hard to imagine being the Dukester tonight.

How Goes the War?

I was happy to hear yesterday, straight from President Bush himself in a stirring speech presented to a captive audience of midshipmen at the Naval Academy, that the war in Iraq is going really well now, that in fact victory is within our grasp and we will settle for nothing less. The president even unveiled an official document titled "A National Strategy for Victory in Iraq."

All I can figure is that I must've been confused by the liberal media's biased reports from the front, because my own assessment of the situation so far, four years into things, had been far less optimistic. O.K. I'll admit it. All along I'd been thinking of Iraq as one big, fat mess. And as for a national strategy, I didn't even know we had one.

Nobody likes being wrong, but when it comes to victory in Iraq I don't mind being set straight. I imagine the president's report was also very comforting to the friends and families of those 2,000-plus servicemen and women who have died thus far in the Global War on Terrorism, the tens of thousands injured in the conflict, and maybe even in some small way any remaining survivors of the countless Iraqis who have perished in our pursuit of their freedom.

Column Right

Another place, another time, and it would've been almost cute. Two young boys, one dressed up like a soldier, showing the other how to march like a soldier. The fancy footwork that leads to an abrupt about-face, a sharp column left or right. The slow, gliding steps that create a sense of military precision and pageantry. "This is how we do it in the Corps," he seems to be saying, emphasis on the "we." He demonstrates each move, first in slow motion, then up to speed. The civilian boy seems impressed, which of course was the boy soldier's intent all along.

But this was not child's play unfolding at the next gate as I waited to board my flight to Seattle. The boy soldier was a baby Marine, all spit and polish in his still-unstriped uniform, shiny black shoes. Fresh out of boot camp. And eager to show his friend what he learned there. The Marine's mother walked up then, smiling, seemingly amused by her son's childlike enthusiasm. And proud, too. You could see it in her eyes. If she was worried when she kissed him good-bye, she did not show it. But surely she must have known, as all mothers and sweethearts and wives of young soldiers know, that when he comes back, if he comes back, he will no longer be a boy. And he will never play soldier again.

Dog Days

Socorro's Amerigo (Charter), at right, with handler Kim Griffith

It was a five-day, thousand-mile trip, encompassing the Newfoundland Club of Northern California Regional Specialty on Friday, Oct. 28, followed by Saturday and Sunday Sacramento area dog shows. Quite an investment, but I’d decided it was high time to start working seriously toward Charter’s championship. I’d purposely waited, hoping the boy would grow up and acquire a brain. But with his third birthday already well behind him, I gave up waiting and entered my big, goofy guy in all three shows.

Fellow NCSD member Peggy Lange was also traveling north for the weekend, taking her beautiful Baby, so we agreed to drive up together and split expenses. Baby, of course, is BIS CH Cypress Bay's See Sea Baby, the nation’s reigning No. 1 show Newf. “The Babe’s” resume features numerous best of breed wins, a best in show, and this year's Newfoundland National Specialty. Short of last year's once-in-a-generation best-in-show triumph at Westminster by that most famous of Newfs--BIS CH All Rise Pouch Cove, aka Josh, Baby's accomplishments are pretty much as good as it gets in the dog show world.

Charter, by contrast, has yet to earn a single point toward his CH. When someone asked me what he needs “to finish,” I had to reply, “15 points and two majors,” i.e., exactly the same as the day he came into the world.

Unlikely as it may seem, Baby and Charter are half-siblings by way of their famous dad, CH Pouch Cove's Goliath. Peggy and I like to make much of this confluence of DNA, but in truth, it's not all that special. Goliath is a randy and prolific boy who has sired dozens and dozens of offspring. Check any Newfoundland entry at any big dog show anywhere in the country, and you’re likely to find at least one Goliath kid. Even my friend, Outi, a Newf breeder in Finland, has a Goliath girl. She calls her “Easy,” perhaps in tribute to the old man.

Charter actually started out strong on Friday, looking good, moving well and winning a nice blue rosette in open dogs under the expert guidance of Kim Griffith, Baby’s favorite handler. Yes! Only a few moments later, however, those all-important points were snatched away by a less-than-spectacular Landseer from the “any other color” class whom the judge picked as "winners dog."

Baby, of course, proved a much better bet. After a wildly successful summer campaign on the East Coast, The Babe, escorted once again by Kim, easily reminded West Coast fans why she's top dog. As always, her fluid stride, perfect silhouette and solid free stack made her stand out even among a gleaming group of stellar specials—the best of California and the Pacific Northwest. In the end, it was Baby who took best of breed not only on Friday, but Saturday and Sunday, too. And then first place in the working group on Sunday—a tremendous win that qualified her for the elite seven-dog best-in-show competition.

The only down side to a Group 1 win is that you have to hang around the show grounds all day, waiting for best in show. And let me interject that dog show grounds by the end of three days acquire a certain inimitable funk. Still, the excitement of seeing your favorite compete for the big ribbon makes it worthwhile. The Babe’s flawless performance charmed the crowd as always, but alas the judge's point went to the English Springer Spaniel. Still, as Kim put it later over margaritas and burrito combo plates, it was a weekend for the scrapbook, and we couldn't have been much happier if the girl had taken it all.

As it was, it required Euclidian geometry to wedge dog crates, icechests and suitcases back into Peggy's van along with the enormous mounted silver punch bowl that will grace the Langes’ living room for the next year, elegant testimony to Baby’s 2005 NCNC regional specialty win. What an honor to spend such a memorable weekend with “The Babe.” I'm just so proud to know her!

I did learn, however, that like any celebrity Baby harbors a few embarrassing secrets. For one, she's a thief who'll nose into any unguarded bag looking for treats. In addition, she sometimes sleeps in the uber-undignified upside-down posture we at our house call "the dead-bug position." Finally—please don't let this get out—the nation's No. 1 show Newfoundland, if you don't watch her very carefully, will eat your soap. And that's the rest of the story.

Anniversary

It's been a normal day. Work, errands, dishes, laundry. Brushing and bathing dogs. Supper and CNN. But that's just fine with me. Two years ago today, as Bob and I, the dogs and the cockatiel ricocheted down Wildcat Canyon in the Acura through smoke and flames, and later as we sat stunned in a downtown hotel room, knowing we'd lost our home to the fire, watching apocalyptic t.v. news reports and wondering where to go, what to do next, on that Oct. 26, we would've given anything for a normal day. It feels good now to be two years down the road and back home at Terra Nova. Though not everything is yet in place, we've come a long, long way toward reclaiming a sense of normalcy. Generally speaking, most people don't appreciate "normal" nearly enough. Sometimes we even confuse it with "boring." But that all changes once you've really experienced "abnormal".

How Do You Spell Relief?

With headlines shouting louder day by day, warning of an impending bird-flu pandemic projected to kill 50-150 million homo sapiens (not to mention what it would do to chickens and cockatiels), it's been a real relief to learn that the U.S. government is already on the case. In fact, President Bush himself has studied the threat and delegated our protection from the deadly H5N1 virus to that peerless team of civil servants at the Department of Homeland Security. You know, the same bunch that did such a stellar job in the Gulf States during the recent hurricanes. Washington's defense squad has hit the field just in time. According to this morning's news, H5N1 has now traveled from Asia to Turkey and perhaps Romania. From there it's only a sneeze or two away from Western Europe, where it's likely to hop a redeye from Heathrow, de Gaulle or Frankfurt to JFK, Dulles or O'Hare. Thank goodness DHS is standing guard. Otherwise, I don't think I'd be able to sleep at night.

Training Days

After three weeks of intensive Starbucks training, I'd like to report that being a barista is a lot harder than it looks. It turns out that making lattes and chatting with customers is only part of the gig. There's also spinning (Starbucks-speak for wiping tables, dumping ashtrays and sweeping up muffin crumbs), hauling big buckets of ice, mixing up pitchers of mocha and Frappuccino base, even mopping and cleaning bathrooms.

And then there's the lingo to learn. Having taken years of Japanese, a high-memorization pursuit if ever there was one, I've been surprised and downright humbled by the subtleties of cup-marking. For example. You'd think by now I'd remember that CRM is caramel mocha, not caramel macchiato, which is simply CM.

It's challenging, too, to learn all those buttons on the video register. Screen after screen of buttons. Oh sure, they're all laid out in semi-alphabetical order, but somehow that doesn't seem to help when you're facing a line of eight people, all desperate for their morning caffeine fix, and somebody orders a triple grande 140-degree half-caf tuxedo with 3 splendas, no whip. So then you toggle back and forth among the beverage, syrup/milk and modifiers screens, hunting and pecking like mad to enter all that before you forget it. You forget it anyway, of course, and then you have to ask again. Sometimes more than once. This is ridiculous. Granted, Starbucks is built on the concept of custom drinks and legendary customer service, but it seems to me that in drinking coffee, as in writing fine prose, modifiers should be kept to an absolute minimum.

Baristas also have to learn dozens of drink recipes and be able to recall them almost instinctively while juggling two, three or even a half dozen orders at once. This ability alone immediately separates the veterans from the novices. While my colleagues are whirring around, filling rows of Frappuccino cups, I'm moving in slow motion, trying to remember whether it's one or two pumps of mocha in a grande. At times like this, a simple spinning assignment comes as welcome relief.

Of course, I am being paid for my efforts. In fact, my first paycheck, covering my initial 16.25- hour week, topped a hundred dollars. Two more like that, and I'll have my initial investment in black Dockers and white polo shirts covered. But at least I can drink like a La Jolla socialite. From half an hour before a shift until half an hour after, my usual grande, decaf, nonfat lattes--or anything else I can dream up--are free. Which makes it tempting to splurge. Today, for example, I think I'll ask for organic milk.

Amphibian Update

A week ago, we were up to four frogs in the fountain. But for the last few days, there's been only one. I worry about the others. Have they just moved or have they been in some kind of terrible accident? The good news is that whatever has become of them, this time I didn't have anything to do with it. (At least not that I know of.)

Starbucks Nation

Every now and then it's fun to surprise those who know you best. Keeps the mystery alive as they say. Last week I shocked my friends and relatives by getting a job as a barista at Starbucks. "No, you did not!" my daughter Lauren responded when I called her to share the news. She's almost 27 now, the same age as my new boss. "Shut up!" echoed her boyfriend Ryan. EK, always the maverick, thought it was funny, in a good way. "That's really cool, Mom!" she said, which was nice to hear. Friends also expressed mixed emotions. "Are you serious?" "That's so cute!" "Keep telling yourself it's only 4 hours a day." "I think it's fantastic!"

It was just an idea at first. Something to counter the isolation of writing and boost the cash flow a bit. Somewhere three of my favorite things--coffee, chocolate and people--came together. The company Web site listed a Starbucks job fair coming up nearby, so I went to investigate the possibilities and ended up filling out an application, which included the question, "What do you like about coffee?", and participating in a group interview that began with "Tell us your name and your favorite Starbucks drink."

I felt kind of odd sitting there with four twenty-somethings: a store manager and three other job applicants, but I tried not to let it show and felt I held my own in the interview. Except maybe for one question: What would you do if you had to be late for work? I gave the expected answer--call your supervisor and explain--plus what I thought was a little extra apple polishing: "And then what I do is stay longer at the end of the day and make up the work." Too bad I went first on that one. "Well, I've never been late, so I can't say from personal experience," the next interviewee answered, and the other two took the cue. "I've never been later either." "Me either." "Hey!" I wanted to butt in. "I was a manager. Managers can be late." But under the circumstances, that would've sounded kind of pathetic, in a Tennessee Williams has-been heroine kind of way, so I just let it go.

Two days later, I got the call they'd said would come within the week, if at all. A job offer from Starbucks! And not only that, but I'd been hand-picked by my interviewer to join his staff at a new store slated to open in three weeks. "It's going to be a drive-through," he said, "which means a little faster pace. Are you up for it?" Yes, of course I was. In fact, I was actually excited. We agreed I would start Monday at a nearby store where I'd train until the new one opened. Wow, I thought. Five days from application to W-4. Not bad. And to think I'd been worried I might be considered too old to get another job.

Then on Monday my interviewer/new boss mentioned that he was really happy with the crew he'd found at the job fair, especially because of our diversity. Huh? Well, one of our group was Japanese, but the rest of us looked to be garden-variety Caucasians. Unless... Could it be that being at least twice as old as the typical Starbucks employee might actually have worked in my favor? It reminded me of something my grandfather said once when he learned he was eligible for a senior discount on tickets to the Hell Drivers grandstand show at the North Carolina State Fair. "Well, I guess there is some advantage to getting old."

Dream Venti: http://www.starbucks.com/aboutus/jobcenter.asp

A Little Good News for a Change

The Natural Resources Defense Council reports that the U. S. Senate recently passed a resolution recognizing global warming as an enormous problem and declaring that the nation must enact mandatory limits on the pollution that causes it. This bipartisan breakthrough marks a desperately needed shift in national policy, reversing the Senate's 1997 vote against mandatory pollution limits, a decision the White House has since used to justify its refusal to address the issue of climate change. I find this latest action particularly significant in light of Katrina, which revved up to Category 4 by feeding on the unusually warm (90+ degree) water in the Gulf of Mexico.

Left Behind

As if they hadn't been through enough, Katrina evacuees were forced to relinquish their pets in order to board a bus out of New Orleans. Of course, many more animals were lost or abandoned during the storm and prior evacuation. Many probably survived though their human families drowned and now are on their own. Fortunately, many animal welfare groups have been working around the clock to rescue them. You can help both the animals and their owners by supporting the Humane Society in these efforts. Donate online at www.hsus.org.

Eye Of The Storm

For a riveting look at Katrina's aftermath in Pass Christian, Miss. through the eyes of a journalist, take a look at this blog: Eye Of The Storm

Overcome by Events

I wanted to finish my funny story about the trip to North Carolina. Really. But the events of this past week, the horrific images from the Gulf Coast, have just flattened me. Maybe in a few days I'll be able to muster up a comic mood and tell you about the long wait at the Chicago airport, the funny-talking Southerners traveling with us, the chewing gum episode and all the rest of it. But for now, I can't stop thinking about New Orleans and Biloxi, Waveland and Slidell, can't quite get my mind around the reality that we've lost an entire major city and a slew of small towns. I can't believe that people had to wait, trapped in their own attics, standing in contaminated water up to their necks, day after day after day, and still no one came to rescue them. I can't fathom that tens of thousands of people, from infants to the elderly, were stranded without food or even water for nearly a week while bureaucrats bungled an emergency response they could have launched even before the storm arrived. I don't understand how anyone can support a president who has inflicted such grievous injuries on the nation, done so much damage in so short a time. I can't comprehend why some of my own family still think he's just what America needs. The lies, the paranoia of this administration make Nixon and his band of burglars look quaint. I am sick when I think of it, the religious hypocrisy, the liberties we've lost in the name of national security, the lives wasted in Iraq, and now the bodies floating in the streets of New Orleans, the homes and histories lost, and mostly, mostly, those desperate dark faces in the attics, waiting, praying, ebbing, dying for help that never comes. God forgive us.

Presidential Priorities

New Orleans is under water. Biloxi is trashed. Gulfport is gone. Scores of people are dead, tens of thousands homeless as a result of Hurricane Katrina. And where is our president? Here in San Diego, rehearsing a speech he plans to give at North Island Naval Base. His topic? Not the unprecedented destruction and human misery ongoing in the Gulf of Mexico, but a rallying cry for his increasingly unpopular jihad in the Gulf of Arabia. Advance reports indicate he actually plans to compare the "global war on terrorism" to World War II.

This development has reminded me of a pithy quote, which I think offers particular insight into our current national climate:

"Naturally, the common people don't want war, but they can always be brought to the bidding of the leaders. Tell them they are being attacked, and denounce the pacifists for lack of patriotism and endangering the country. It works the same in every country."

Herman Goering
Reichsmarschall, Third Reich
At the Nuremberg Trials

You Can Go Home Again, But Why Would You Want To?

Part I: Flying the Friendly Skies

August and summer's last hurrah, a trip to North Carolina to see my father and his wife, Weyburn. EK met me en route, accompanied by her adorable Cavalier King Charles spaniel, Rory, and the three of us flew together from Chicago to Raleigh.

When Bob travels on business, and I ask him how his flight went, he usually answers with a single word. Uneventful. Let me just begin by saying my trip to North Carolina was not uneventful.

The first clue came before we’d even left the gate in San Diego when the pilot announced that storms were rolling through the Chicago area, causing a “ground stop” at O’Hare. As a result, we wouldn’t be leaving San Diego for another hour. I wondered if EK had already taken off from Sacramento, but within a few minutes she text-messaged me to say her departure also had been delayed. So I kicked back and struck up a conversation with my seatmate, a vacationing Italian accountant. Eventually, we took off and everyone settled in with their books and headphones.

About an hour later, a woman a few rows in front of us suddenly broke into our quiet flight routines. “Sir!" she began shouting. "Wake up, sir!” She was standing in the aisle, next to her empty seat, and bending over a man in the middle seat. “Sir! Sir!” And then, looking around at row after row of startled faces. “Is there a doctor on the plane?”

For the next 15 minutes or so, my new Italian friend and I watched in stunned silence as a full-blown medical emergency unfolded around us. “I need some oxygen here,” the woman was broadcasting to the flight attendants, who started bustling up and down the aisle, opening overhead compartments and breaking out a series of navy blue medical bags. The woman in the aisle kept shouting. “I can’t find a pulse. I think we’re going to have to defib him. Let’s go, people, we need to move.”

The unconscious passenger must have heard this even through his stupor, because he came around just for a moment, prompting his rescuer to change tactics. “We need to start an i.v.,” she announced. “I’m a nurse. I can do it.”

By this time, another woman had come to her aid, presumably answering the call for a doctor. But unlike the nurse she didn't seem to have a clue what to do for the patient beyond re-checking his pulse and looking worried. Fortunately a second doctor came rushing up from first class and took over, much to the visible relief of the pulse-checker. "I'm a dermatologist," she apologized and then hurried back to her seat.

"Let's move him so we can lay him down," the first-class doc suggested. The nurse agreed. “I need some men here,” she shouted. Several guys jumped up to help, but the aisle was so narrow and our victim so wide that only a couple of them could really get hold of him, which made it all the harder for them to squeeze his considerable dead weight to the back of the plane where they laid him out on the floor between the lavatories and the food service units. Within seconds, the doctor, the nurse and at least three flight attendants were swarming around the poor guy, opening his shirt, unzipping his pants, pulling out medical equipment and making phone calls. Soon, one of the pilots came back to check out the situation.

My new Italian friend and I conferred. Both of us expected we’d have to land somewhere short of Chicago to offload the patient. Instead, the pilot returned to the cockpit, acknowledged a medical emergency on board but noted that "things are looking positive for our customer," making it possible for us to continue on to Chicago. He then thanked us for our patience and signed off with a cheery, “You hang on back there, Jesse!”

By the time we landed in Chicago, the doctor had returned to first class, and Jesse was propped up in a back-row seat, a la Weekend at Bernie’s, conscious but tethered to an i.v. bag hanging from the overhead compartment, his personal Florence Nightingale still by his side.

Let this be a lesson to us all. If ever you feel the need to lapse into unconsciousness at 35,000 feet, do be sure there’s a crackerjack nurse seated right next to you. Or at least someone who plays one on t.v.

Next: Korean kids and Raleigh rednecks

Another Tiny Tragedy

I'm just not sure I have the emotional stamina to handle much more frog drama. And yet the saga continues. This evening I was on the back patio, repotting some herbs Bob brought home yesterday. They'd been sitting outside in an open plastic bag since. The sage went well. Nothing unusual with the oregano either. But when I turned the peppermint out of its plastic pot, a frog came with it.

"What are you doing in there?" I asked it. "You should be in the front-porch fountain with your friends." The frog didn't answer of course, but I think it understood, because it allowed me to catch it and deposit it in the fountain, where it took a quick dip, then climbed up on the rim and sat there, breathing very fast.

I left it to recover from its adventure, went back to my pots and stuffed the empties in the plastic bag they'd come in. Just as I started to toss the whole wad into the trash, I felt the bag move in my hand. It couldn't be! But yes, there was a frog in the bag. I tried to get a fix on him and discovered he had a friend! A little incredulous now, I made a second trip to the fountain and dumped in both of the bagged frogs. One seemed happy enough in the water; the other immediately leaped out onto the porch wall and stuck there. To each his own.

Back again to the patio, where the herbs were now nicely bunched in two big, heavy pots, which I thought needed a little rearranging. As I pulled one in front of the other, a fourth frog flipped out from somewhere underneath and landed on its back, one tiny front leg mangled and dangling. Even after managing to right itself, it looked a little crumpled. This struck me as a horrific development, even worse than finding a flattened frog in the hinge of the front door Saturday morning. That frog at least went instantly. This frog was irreparably wounded and probably dying a miserable death. That is, if frogs experience pain.

I wasn't sure about this. I tried to think back to college zoology class, which unfortunately involved the dissection of quite a few frogs, mostly pre-deceased and pickled. But in one lab session, we were supposed to take a pair of scissors and cut off the top of a living frog's head, right through the hinge of its jaw. I couldn't do it of course; my lab partner had to take over. Afterwards, the poor creature continued to hop around, apparently oblivious to its mortal injury. This barbaric exercise was intended to demonstrate something unusual and, I think, primitive about the way a frog's brain works, something I forgot immediately after finals and never really needed to know anyway. Until now, 34 years later.

Frogs do have nerves; I was sure of that much. We had to find them in our pickled projects, woven in amongst other inner frog parts. But did our hapless, headless frog victim feel pain? It didn't seem like it. The whole point of the experiment was that the frog continued to act fairly normally, at least until it died, which, blessedly, happened fairly quickly.

I could only hope now that my tiny victim didn't feel as bad as he looked. I briefly entertained the thought of taking him to a veterinarian, but in all seriousness couldn't think of anything to do for him except carry him to the fountain and slip him gently into the water. But he couldn't swim very well, and I was afraid he was going to drown, so I skimmed him out and left him sitting on the porch, looking almost okay except for that one sad little leg. I tried to convince myself that he was going to recover, that his bad leg would simply dry up and fall off, that a three-legged frog could still have a good life. But the truth is I feel rotten.

I remember finding that first little frog in our fountain. Was it only last week? Such a happy, innocent moment. Since then, despite all my warm, fuzzy feelings toward the frogs, I have managed to taint the entire experience by mindlessly causing the death of one little friend and the mutilation of another. Now I'm hesitant to close a door, move heavy objects or even take an unstudied step for fear of smushing someone else. Just imagine how paranoid the frogs must be.

Three Frog Night

As of tonight, we have three frogs in the fountain. Did I mention it's a small fountain? Stay tuned. This could get interesting.

Update 8/6/05: I regret to report that the frog population fell by one last night. It was a tragic incident, and I'm still too traumatized to talk about it. On the positive side, by this afternoon another tiny tenant had already filled the vacancy, which cheered me up quite a bit.

Politics and Religion

O.K. Let's get down to it. Let's get controversial. Thus far, although these blog entries have, I hope, reflected my faith, I've purposely been fairly oblique about it. No specifics. No sermons. But, in fact, re-evaluating my beliefs in the wake of a life-altering, near-death experience like the fire has been an ongoing inner pursuit these past 21 months.

Actually, it's a journey that began well before that, accelerated by external issues in the church and society--the narrowing of evangelical Christian thinking to a few hot-button topics and the trend toward the merger of politics and religion. If I remember my U.S. history correctly, the Pilgrims would see this latter shift as alarming.

The pendulum swing hits me personally when people assume that my Christianity implies I am also a right-wing Republican. Which I'm not. (I'm not a Democrat either, by the way.) Other Christians, for example, have been surprised to learn I'm not a Bush/Cheney fan. From my perspective, I'm surprised they can support a man who claims to be a Christian while waging vengeful, unwarranted war. I'm pretty sure this is not what Jesus would do.

But I've felt a little lonely out here on the left bank of Christianity, so I've been searching for other Christians who believe the concept of an omnipotent, yet personal God is just too big, too radical to cram into tiny red or blue boxes. I've discovered a few brave forerunners. One is Jim Wallis, editor of Sojourners magazine and author of "God's Politics: Why the Right Gets It Wrong and the Left Doesn't Get It."

Today, the New York Times published an op-ed piece by Wallis, which struck me as hugely encouraging. Here's an excerpt:

"Because the Republicans, with the help of the religious right, have captured the language of values and religion (narrowly conceived as only abortion and gay marriage), the Democrats have also been asking how to 'take back the faith.' But that means far more than throwing a few Bible verses into policy discussions, offering candidates some good lines from famous hymns, or teaching them how to clap at the right times in black churches. Democrats need to focus on the content of religious convictions and the values that underlie them.

"The discussion that shapes our political future should be one about moral values, but the questions to ask are these: Whose values? Which values? And how broadly and deeply will our political values be defined? Democrats must offer new ideas and a fresh agenda, rather than linguistic strategies to sell an old set of ideologies and interest group demands."

Wallis goes on to suggest five planks of a new Democratic platform, which right away tells you he's come up with at least three important issues other than abortion and homosexuality. If you'd like to read the entire Wallis piece, you can find it on The New York Times Web site: http://www.nytimes.com/2005/08/04/opinion/04wallis.html.

Hogwarts Expressed

Best part of the weekend: finishing Harry Potter, Vol. VI. Worst part of the weekend: finishing Harry Potter Vol. VI. As usual, J.K. leaves you stunned, stumped by lingering questions, and doomed to suffer another three years of withdrawal back in Muggleland. Meanwhile, Voldemort is still lurking out there somewhere and up to no good whatsoever.

Family Ties

A first order of business since leaving my job to begin my work has been catching up on important matters too long deferred. And what's more important than spending time with family? First it was my sister, her husband and son who came out from Ohio for a week. This was truly an event. Karen hadn't been to California since our daughter Erin's wedding nearly three years ago. Denny hadn't been since completing grad school in L.A. almost 20 years ago. And it was a first for my nephew, Justin. We had a great time, and it was a good excuse for me to revisit those San Diego sites we natives usually abandon to the tourists--the zoo, the wild animal park, the traditional scenic spots, etc.

Two days after Karen and crew left, I headed to the airport again. This time I was the one standing in the security line, on my way to visit daughter Lauren and her boyfriend Ryan in Seattle. Lately, visits to Lauren have been prompted by an emergency of some kind, but this time was just for fun. We indulged in the usual girl stuff--shopping, getting pedicures, going out for lunch. And when Ryan could join us we branched out to see the traditional scenic spots, etc. Next on the calendar is a trip back East with Erin to see my dad and his wife, Weyburn. Technology is a wondrous thing. Reaching out and touching someone via phone or e-mail does keep us connected. But virtual hugs leave much to be desired. There's just no substitute for a real visit.

A Frog in Our Fountain

Among the many delights Bob and I discovered during our initial sojourn at Terra Nova before the fire was a tiny tree frog who hopped out of a hibiscus plant one day while I was watering. I scooped him up carefully and took him inside for a few minutes to show Bob. He was a wonderful and wiggly little thing who promptly escaped my fingers and scaled our kitchen window a la Spiderman.

After the fire, looking around at charred terrain as far as could be seen in every direction, I thought often about our little frog. Surely he and all his kind must have perished in the cataclysm. And even if a few lucky Kermit cousins had survived, how could they possibly repopulate without any apparent source of water? With all the fire took from us, it seemed especially cruel that we would likely never again find a frog in our flowers.

You know where this is going, of course, so here's the denouement. Our daughter Lauren gave us a beautiful copper wall fountain for our anniversary. It arrived just as we were moving into the new house, and we decided the front porch was the perfect place to hang it. What a lovely addition to Terra Nova. We found its burbling such a soothing sound that we took to leaving the door ajar just to listen to it. Apparently, we weren't the only ones enjoying our fountain. One evening I discovered a tiny tree frog perched on its rim. Reason enough, Bob and I decided, to call our recovery from the fire complete.

P.S. Update 7/31/05. Make that two frogs in our fountain. Here are a few photos of Pacific tree frogs: http://www.npwrc.usgs.gov/narcam/idguide/hylareg.htm

Back to the Future

I had only two goals for the month of June, but they were both biggies. No. 1: move home to Terra Nova. No. 2: leave my job as magazine editor at San Diego State University to work fulltime on my book about the Cedar Fire.

The moving part stretched out over a couple of weeks. As soon as the new house passed final inspection, on Thursday the 16th, we started hauling stuff out of the rental. After a full weekend of that, it was back to work for 5 days, followed by another weekend marathon of moving and cleaning.

But then, finally, we were home again. Everything was a jumble, of course, piles of boxes and bags all around. And since we've replaced so little furniture as yet, the house literally echoed with our voices and the dogs' barking. But it didn't matter. We were back, finally able to reclaim the future we'd barely begun when the fire came. Only 7 months in the house in the canyon that had so raised our spirits, and then 20 months to rebuild it. Dorothy said it best: There's no place like home.

Three days after we turned in the keys to the rental house, amid a flurry of cards, gifts and farewell parties, I turned in the keys to my office, as well. It's felt weird this last week, not going to work, but it's been a healthy decompression period so far. It's so satisfying just to unpack and sort things out, and in the sorting to resume some semblance of an ordered life. It's such a luxury to suddenly have time for simple necessities.

Today, for example, I finally washed my car and had the oil changed, two of a million things I've been putting off for weeks. It took longer than usual. There was a real crowd at Jiffy Lube, and the guy who checked me in apologized from the get go. I'm sorry, he said, it's going to be about 35 minutes. That's o.k., I replied, I'm not in any hurry today.

Sudden Death

A part of me died today. And I have to say it was one of those deaths that people euphemistically refer to as a blessing. In fact, it was one of those Kevorkian situations in which the patient actively seeks death as a preferable option to a life of constant, unremitting pain.

The signs had been there for months. Just a twinge or two at first, but enough to send me in for medical attention. To my surprise the situation turned out to be much more serious than I'd had any reason to expect. We'll do all we can, the doctor said, but it might not be enough. The fix lasted 8 months. And then, just 2 days ago, in a period of about half an hour, all hell broke loose. I couldn't swallow enough Advil to keep the pain under control. Still, I hesitated to give in. Maybe if I waited just a little longer, things would get better. But instead things only got worse. So I made the appointment. The first opening was Thursday morning, and this was Monday morning. Within a few hours, I called back to say Thursday wouldn't be soon enough. Well, you could come in tomorrow, the scheduler said, if you're willing to see a different doctor. Was she kidding? I was willing to see a chimpanzee in a white coat if he could stop the pain.

So this afternoon, I put myself at the mercy of a man I'd never met but quickly grew to love. I'd always thought a root canal would be a bad thing, I told him when it was all over. But this was a good thing. What a great job you have; people come to see you in serious pain, and you can help them. Yes, he said. So many dentists nowadays want to do cosmetic stuff, but I've always preferred the idea of curing disease. Good choice, I thought. But alas poor tooth #20; it seems I hardly knew ye.

Reasons to Celebrate

We've been celebrating a lot in our family lately. A 30th anniversary would be enough I suppose. But that was only the beginning. The same day, our big, lovable and terminally goofy Newfoundland puppy, Charter, turned three. (Yes, we celebrate dog birthdays. Always have; always will.) Two days later, May 27, our younger daughter Erin Kendall hit the quarter-century mark. Talk about a time warp; how else could that be possible? Finally,on Saturday the 28th, we marked the completion of rebuilding our home, destroyed 19 months ago in the biggest, baddest, fastest wildfire in California's known history. We thought all of these converging occasions called for a party. A big party. One hundred fifteen people in all. Not to mention four canines.

We started off with a dedication ceremony led by our good friends and former co-pastors Steve and Cinda Gorman, who came all the way from Cincinnati to celebrate with us and give eloquent voice to our gratitude for life and renewal, our grief for the 17 people killed by the fire, and our recognition that this new house, so much more house than I ever thought we would have, is a gift from God dedicated to his purposes. It was a lot of emotional ground to cover in 15 minutes, and it prompted more than a few tears. But it was all good. In fact, it was all very good. And that includes my friend Colleen DeLory's Irish chocolate walnut cream cake, the best stop in the buffet line. Sometimes life is just that sweet.

Thirty Years

What can you do with 30 years?

If you're Saddam Hussein you can progressively destroy a nation, its future and the soul of its people. If you're Toni Morrison you can build a body of brilliant work, much of which will forever remain part of the canon of great American literature.

If you're me, you can spend it married to one man, fulfilling that eery but nearly always ignored prophecy of the traditional wedding vows: experiencing with him sickness and health, wealth and poverty, soaring hopes, crushing disappointments and the impertinent optimism of fresh starts. You can build a home, a family, a craft, a universe of friends (and people you thought for a time were friends but turned out otherwise), an assortment of changing or lasting pursuits, all pieced together into a mutual mission to make a difference. That is to say, you can build a life.

It's against the odds. Not many couples can hold on for 30 years anymore. And some who do perhaps gave up too much of themselves in the process. But we've made it. Thirty years today. And--here's the best part--we still love each other. Truly. Madly (well, more like sanely now, but it doesn't sound as good). Deeply, definitely.

Happy anniversary, Bob. We've already left most of the field behind. Let's go for a new record.