Deja Vu All Over Again

CAL FIRE Tanker 71, piloted by Lynne Magrew, drops a load of fire retardant on a burning hillside near Lyon's Canyon while fighting the Harris Fire in San Diego County. (Michael Robinson Chavez/Los Angeles Times) Oct. 26, 2007

What is it about October 26th? Four years ago today, our house burned, and Bob and I almost died escaping the Cedar Fire, supposedly the worst wildfire in California history. A year ago today, I was feeling bouyant about how far we'd come in three years, rebuilding our house and rebooting our lives. Then came news that a vicious new wildfire near Palm Springs had killed four (and eventually five) firefighters. So this year Bob and I decided to make Oct. 26th a good day. We'd planned a party for tonight. Just a few good friends for a backyard barbecue. Instead Bob was manning a booth at one of four local assistance centers for new fire victims, while Terra and I were visiting evacuees at a shelter, listening to heartbreaking stories that make our loss four years ago seem insignificant.

San Diego is once again reeling from a catastrophic, week-long fire seige. Multiple fires all across the county. Seven casualties despite an unprecedented half a million people evacuated. Up to 1,500 homes destroyed. Bob and I were among those displaced, forced to watch from afar as fire again threatened Terra Nova. But this time when the roads reopened, we were among the fortunate ones who had a home to come back to. Now all we can think of is those who are just beginning the long road to recovery. We want to help them, to prove by our recovery that life, even a better life, is possible after disaster. It's an uneven mission. One man I talked to yesterday, his name was Cesar, told me I was an angel sent by God. I will not forget him. But today an elderly man whose dog could not be rescued talked and cried and talked and cried some more, and there was nothing I could do for him but listen. I cannot forget him. Or his dog, Schotzi. I can only hope and pray that for them, as for us four years ago, there will be a bobcat leaping out of the smoke to show the way, that is to say, I hope they experience a miracle.

October 26, 2007. The more things change, the more things stay the same.

UPDATE: Schotzi survived the fire! A miracle indeed!

Global Gore

Only in America could anyone with a name like Al Gore make good. But boy has the Goracle reached the pinnacle. Since his ignominious defeat by Supreme Court decision after winning the popular vote in the 2000 presidential election, Al has amassed a fortune while working tirelessly to save the world. He's become a Hollywood celebrity, winning both an Emmy and an Oscar for his climate change documentary "An Inconvenient Truth." And now, Al Gore has received the Nobel Peace Prize.

It wasn't that long ago--the day after the 2004 election to be precise--that I interviewed a prominent climate change scientist who was pretty close to despairing over both the re-election of an anti-science, anti-environment administration and the overall lack of public attention being paid to the critical problem of global warming, the topic of his life's work. "What if you got Bill Clinton to spear-head a big media campaign?" I suggested. "He'd listen to you. Or how about Gore? He's already written a book about the environment."

Little did we know Gore was already on the case. It's hard to believe that in only three years, green's become the new black, and Al's become a media darling and Nobel Peace Prize winner for spreading the decidedly unappealing message of climate change. I say more power to him. Now if only some equally passionate and brilliant folks can come up with a few market-friendly ideas to help us turn the problem around. And I don't mean hybrid Harleys or reusable McDonald's wrappers. I mean something really innovative, something drastic, like an anti-doomsday machine. Because I don't think we can recycle enough cans or replace enough light bulbs to make a big enough difference in time. Polar bears are already drowning.

But at least we're figuring that out now. That's progress over where we were even three years ago. And this Nobel business will draw even more global attention to the issue. Good news, all in all. Which we really need after the last couple weeks of the ongoing White House crime saga. Really, what kind of person can justify plunging the nation into multi-generational debt to finance a lost war, then take a mere pittance by comparison from poor children in need of health care? What kind of person merely redefines terms to be able to claim this nation does not torture people, when Abu Ghraib and Gitmo and secret offshore CIA prisons so graphically argue otherwise? It boggles the mind; it grieves the spirit.

So for now, I'm going to be happy for Al and Tipper and feel optimistic, if just for a little while, that change is still possible, and in a good way.

What Happens in Vegas ...

... so far, isn't much to write home about. I'm ensconced in a posh room 20 stories up in the Mandalay Bay Hotel, with a floor to ceiling window view of the famous (or infamous?) Las Vegas Strip. It was lovely last night, in an artificial sort of way, watching darkness fall and the neon glow rise from here to the faux Eiffel Tower, eclipsing along the way the faux pyramid and sphinx and faux New York skyline. It's just not my kind of town, Vegas, but it was a free ride since Bob is attending a conference here. Sounded like a nice opportunity to veg out by a pool, do a little writing, take a nap, maybe even update my blog.

Enough with the Snakes Already!

This one was little, only about 14 inches long, and skinny, no bigger around than a magic marker, but a rattlesnake nevertheless, wound up in a perfect coil on the threshold of our front door, pretty much exactly where my foot usually lands first whenever I go out. Plus it was dark and the snake was dark and the threshold is dark. Even when Bob and I went around through the garage with the now-well-used snake stick and covered bucket, Bob couldn't see this Southern Pacific rattler until I pointed it out. Fortunately we've learned to look close for just this sort of thing now before we take a step outside the house. What next though? If this little viper had been any closer he would've been IN the house. And, sorry Steve Irwin, wherever you are, but that's just over the line.

Vick Schmick

I haven't blogged about the Michael Vick dog-fighting situation for a simple reason: it's entirely unspeakable. But I would like to pass along these pertiment comments by baseball Hall of Famer Hank Aaron, an accomplished man, a decent man, and a board member of Vick's now tenuous employer, the Atlanta Falcons.

“I’ve never seen someone who had so much ability and has fallen so far,” Aaron said. “It’s not what is going to happen as far as his football career is concerned. It’s just him as a man, as a human being, being able to get his life back.”

Well said. But still, Vick at least has a chance of getting his life back, which is more than can be said of the many dogs so brutally dispatched at his dog-fighting facility. For more information about the so-called "sport" of animal fighting, check out http://www.hsus.org/.

Finally!

First the New York Times and now the Washington Post are reporting that "embattled Attorney General Alberto R. Gonzales has resigned from his post, ending a controversial cabinet tenure that included clashes with Congress over the firing of nine U.S. attorneys and the scope of efforts to spy on U.S. citizens.

"Gonzales' resignation marks the loss of another Bush loyalist at a time when his support in public opinion polls has been lagging. Though Bush had voiced continued support for Gonzales, a longtime ally from Texas, the attorney general's support in Congress had withered after a series of run-ins that prompted some lawmakers to allege he had committed perjury."

And then there's this August 30th capsulization of the Gonzales legacy from that excellent British mag, The Economist:

GOING, GOING, GONZALES

The resignation of George Bush's attorney-general leaves the administration in a
pretty ruinous state

BETTER late than never. On August 27th, with his reputation in ruins and the Justice Department in chaos, Alberto Gonzales finally resigned as attorney-general. The immediate cause of his departure was the firing of nine federal prosecutors. The bigger cause was that he embodied most of the things that Mr Bush's critics find intolerable about his presidency.

Mr Gonzales's departure produced predictable cheers from Democrats. More significant was the reaction of his fellow Republicans. Nobody except Mr Bush seemed to have a good word to say for America's first Hispanic attorney-general. For his part, Mr Gonzales said that he was glad to have lived the American dream (he was one of eight children of an itinerant immigrant labourer). He said that even his worst days at the Department of Justice were better than his father's best days.

The battle over Mr Gonzales was one of the most bitter of Mr Bush's second term, inflaming relations between Congress and the White House, eating up weeks of congressional time and leaving the Department of Justice a dysfunctional shell, with several of its top posts empty and the professional staff more demoralised than at any time since Watergate.

Why did the attorney-general prove such a lightning rod? Mr Gonzales is a polite and inoffensive man. He has moderate views on affirmative action and abortion. His various appearances before congressional committees resembled nothing so much as the clubbing of a baby seal. But "Fredo", as the president liked to call him, was at the centre of two of Mr Bush's most controversial policies.

The first was the politicisation of the federal government. Republicans have long complained that the federal government is stuffed full of dyed-in-the-wool lefties who habitually ignore or subvert Republican policies. The Bush administration did more than complain: it increased the number of political jobs by 12% across the government and boosted the number of political jobs that do not require legislative confirmation by 33%.

The danger of this is that the federal government will degenerate into an arm of the Republican Party. This danger is particularly acute with the Justice Department, whose first duty is to implement the law as impartially as possible. Mr Gonzales raised hackles from the first because he was so close to the White House. His decision to fire nine federal prosecutors in 2006 suggested that he might be trying to cajole others into pursuing Republican policies. And his shifting explanations for his decision--from his insistence that he fired them for incompetence to his later descent into amnesia--sealed his fate.

Mr Bush was also determined to give himself the maximum possible latitude in dealing with terrorists. As the president's legal counsel during his first term, Mr Gonzales gave the green light to the Guantanamo prison camp, secret CIA prison camps, the wiretapping of American citizens and the use of torture. He even described some of the Geneva Conventions as "quaint". Mr Gonzales was not the architect of those policies--that honour probably belongs to Dick Cheney and his then chief counsel, David Addington--but he gave them his imprimatur. And his faltering performance as attorney-general provided the left with a chance of revenge.

FAREWELL TO THE TEXAS RAJ

Mr Bush now has the task of finding a new attorney-general. Several names are already circulating in Washington: Michael Chertoff, the secretary of homeland security; Larry Thompson, a senior vice-president at PepsiCo; Ted Olson, a former solicitor-general; Orrin Hatch, a senator. But it is a measure of the difficulty of the decision that the White House did not produce a name immediately.

Mr Bush wants to preserve as much of his anti-terrorism machinery as possible--particularly a surveillance programme that needs to be reauthorised again in five months. He hates the idea of Congress deciding who should get a job in his administration. But his options are limited. Whoever he chooses will face tough confirmation hearings in a Democratic-controlled Congress that has already feasted on Mr Gonzales's flesh--and will then have barely a year to rebuild a dysfunctional department.

Mr Gonzales's departure marks the end of a strange era in Washington politics: the Texas Raj. Mr Bush rode into town in 2001 surrounded by people who had known each other for years in Austin, who were fiercely loyal to "43", and who had little liking for the customs of the Potomac. But now they have almost all gone, the victims of time (Dan Bartlett), excessive partisanship (Karl Rove, the president's chief adviser, who resigned two weeks ago) and incompetence (Harriet Miers and Mr Gonzales). The only remaining members of the original posse are Margaret Spellings, the secretary of education, and Mr Bush himself. The Bush White House is now largely run by Washington insiders such as Joshua Bolten, his chief of staff, and Ed Gillespie.

But might Mr Gonzales's departure also mark the beginning of a new era of good feeling and reconciliation? Some people certainly think so. The departure of Messrs Rove and Gonzales has removed two of the Democrats' top targets, the argument goes, and the ascendancy of Mr Bolten in the White House creates the possibility of at least some co-operation between White House and Congress. Both parties have an interest in getting the farm bill and the energy bill passed; the Democrats have a wider interest in not appearing to be obstructionist. Mr Bush now has an opportunity to revamp his reputation by adopting a more emollient style.

Yet there are endless problems with this rosy scenario. Mr Cheney remains entrenched in the vice-president's office, along with Mr Addington and other hard-liners. The Democrats are determined to get their revenge for six years of brutal treatment at the hands of the Republicans. They will undoubtedly use the confirmation of a new attorney-general to do as much harm to the Bush administration as possible. They may also continue to harass Mr Gonzales for possible perjury during his hearings. There is a strong likelihood that they will demand the appointment of a special prosecutor in exchange for confirming a new attorney-general. This will ensure months of painful and embarrassing legal inquiries.

Mr Bush also has precious little political capital left, even with his own side, and certainly not enough to relaunch his presidency. The Gonzales fiasco has dealt yet another serious blow to his reputation. Mr Bush ("the decider") prides himself on his ability to pick good men and then allow them to get on with things. But Mr Gonzales was a lightweight crony who was out of his depth. Mr Bush also prides himself on his loyalty to his subordinates. But this loyalty has persuaded him to back friends long after they have become liabilities. Messrs Gonzales and Rove and the rest of the Texas posse now have the luxury of spending their retirements in their home state. Mr Bush has no choice but to spend the next 17 months in Washington. He is not in for a pleasant time.

Dog Days of Summer

I'm celebrating the return of Internet service to Terra Nova tonight with a new blog entry! Yes, we are finally back online in a big way with our own T1, and I have a lot of Web surfing to catch up on after six frustrating weeks of catch as catch can Net availability via Starbucks hot spots and a borrowed Verizon card that worked only on Bob's computer, which meant early morning or after-five Net access only. It was a good thing all in all, kind of a Web diet, or probably more accurate, Web rehab. So here's a summary of where we're at as summer winds to a close.

For starters, we've ramped up to five canines in the house. Yes, five. In addition to our three Newfs--Terra, Charter and Lilo--EK is here for a couple of weeks with Shiloh, a sweet, wiggly yellow lab, and Rory, an impossibly cute Cavalier spaniel with a death wish. It only takes a second without direct supervision for Rory to find a new way to attempt suicide. He's three and a half now, with quite a track record.

From his first visit to Terra Nova at age 4 months when he immediately snorted up a handful of foxtails, necessitating a sleepover at the emergency room, to his latest adventure--breaking into the duffel containing his food and eating himself into a near comatose state--Rory never misses an opportunity to terrify his human caregivers. This time, without knowing what he'd gotten into (he left no evidence, having managed to locate a secret side entrance while leaving everything else zipped up tight) we all panicked, and Rory got to spend the day at the vet's on IV fluids to help his body process all that dry kibble. Last year's big adventure brought him nose to nose with a striking rattlesnake, and only Bob's totally selfless intervention scooped the little scamp out of harm's way a nanosecond ahead of certain death. Of course right now the Rorster is curled up sleeping on the couch, looking ever so angelic.

Speaking of rattlesnakes, we've certainly seen our share of them in the past few weeks. About 10 days after my exciting front-porch encounter, Bob ran across a similar-sized specimen elsewhere on the property. This one we transported farther away, which turned out to be a good decision since the photos we each took of our respective snakes revealed identical markings. We'd both captured the same snake! Even after that, I came across a suspiciously similar-looking fellow crossing our neighbor's dirt driveway. Could it be? Or are we just well populated with 3 foot rattlesnakes? Needless to say, we've learned to watch our step pretty carefully.

Of course, it wouldn't be summer in East San Diego County without a week or so of beastly heat. This year has been nicely temperate until this last week when we spent about four consecutive afternoons in triple-digits, grateful for our solar-powered air conditioning. Today was bearable again, but high temps always raise the spectre of wildfire, and it's been another year of drought, so everything that hasn't burned lately is crackling dry and itching to explode. All we need to ratchet the fire danger all the way up is a good stiff Santa Ana.

In the meantime, the Santa Barbara area is fielding the Zaca Fire, an immense blaze that's been burning for six weeks already. With containment still a ways off, the Zaca has hit 200,000 acres and is beginning to nudge the Cedar Fire's record as possibly the largest fire in California history at 276,000 acres. Thanks to an atmospheric inversion layer, we've even had smoke here the past couple of days. Fortunately, the Zaca Fire has so far kept largely to the Los Padres National Forest, and no homes or human lives have been lost. I would try to come up with a pithy clincher for this post but it's after 11, and time to sleep. Right after I take all the dogs out for one last airing.

Have a Look at This Little Beauty!

A few times in my life I've actually surprised myself by doing something I really wouldn't have suspected I could do. Having a baby, for example. Driving down a mountain through smoke and fire. Scuba diving with a shark. These were all things that other people did. Not me. Until I did them.

Today I added to that very short list after discovering this Terra Nova visitor right on the front porch, enjoying the wet spot where the fountain spray gathers. I actually picked it up with our snake stick and corraled it in a covered bucket until Bob got home. Then we walked way down the hill and released it. And really, it was a beautiful creature. What a shame most people just kill these guys. They were here first after all. We've intruded on their habitat. Plus, we really need them to keep the rodent population in balance. So this particular Crotalus mitchellii, aka Southwest Speckled Rattlesnake, is off hunting again tonight as usual, after an unusually eventful day. I'd like to think Steve Irwin would be pleased.

Stick a Fork in Mitt Romney; He's Done

Number of dog owners in the U.S.: 43 million

Number of dog owners in the U.S. likely to vote for a presidential candidate who once drove 12 hours with the family's Irish setter locked into a kennel atop the car, stopping only to hose the dog off when urine and diarrhea started dripping down the car windows, and then rationalizing that good ole Seamus LOVED riding on top the car, really he did: zip, zero, nada

Kessler Flats

Point to point, as the crow--or the sheriff’s helicopter--flies, it’s only about four miles from where the lost hunter, Sergio Martinez, lit his infamous signal fire to the cul de sac in Ramona’s San Diego Country Estates where the Cedar Fire took the first of more than 2,200 houses in late October, 2003. On the ground, however, it’s literally a long and winding road.

Bob and I set out last Sunday to retrace Sergio’s footprints and in the process we logged nearly 100 miles on the Suburban. We started by driving north up Wildcat Canyon to Ramona, where Hwy. 67 becomes Hwy. 78, and then on past farms, horse ranches and even a camel dairy as we wound into the Laguna mountains all the way to the outskirts of Julian. A mile shy of that quaint little mining village turned tourist mecca, we turned south again on Pine Hills Road.

In most Cedar Fire reports, the fire's point of origin is usually described as four miles south of Pine Hills. I'd never been there before, but it's easy to miss--a tiny community of homes, many decidedly upscale, and all loosely clustered around a dinner theater and a fire station. It was here at the Pine Hills station that some 350 firefighters waited while their bosses drove one dirt road after another, in the darkness, trying to find a way into the fire. They never did, of course, which is why the blaze was able to simmer along until the Santa Ana winds came up in full force at midnight and shot the fire like a cannon ball out of the mountains and eventually all the way into the city of San Diego 50 miles to the west.

Pine Hills Road leads almost immediately to Eagle Peak Road, which turns quickly from asphalt to gravel and dirt. Sure enough, four miles later we came to Kessler Flats, where Sergio pulled off and parked his truck early the morning of October 25, 2003. Then he and his hunting partner, Ron Adkins, headed off into the chaparral in search of deer.

We only found a couple of spots along Eagle Peak Road near Kessler Flats where you can pull off, and certainly no place big enough for a fire engine to park, much less turn around. Think about trying to squeeze in a fleet of trucks and engines, bulldozers and crew buses. And being sure they could all get turned around and make a hasty exit if the fire turned around and headed back in their direction, as wildfires have often been known to do.

In fact, it was in almost this exact location half a century ago when 11 firefighters were killed during an unexpected flash-over in a canyon during the Inaja Fire. We'd even stopped at the Inaja Memorial just before Pine Hills Road and read their names.

As the name implies, Kessler Flats is a broad, grassy break in the rolling hills and corrugated canyons that distinguish this part of San Diego County. It must have been beautiful a couple of months ago when everything was still green. It’s still striking now, a lake of golden grasses bending in the breeze, studded by islands of enormous oaks.

We’d made a point of coming more prepared than Sergio. He’d brought only a rifle and a single canteen. We brought two backpacks full of water, a sheaf of topographical maps and two GPS locaters. We armored ourselves with sunscreen, sunglasses, ball caps and snake boots. And Bob, still my favorite Marine, even strapped on a pistol, just in case some hungry mountain lion thought we looked tasty.

There’s no trail leading from Eagle Peak Road to the point where Sergio ended up after losing track of his hunting buddy and wandering lost and thirsty for nearly 8 hours that scorching hot October Saturday. The map actually shows a bit of trail, just a loop from one point to another on Eagle Peak Road. But on the ground we saw only a few tire tracks, and even they didn’t seem to lead anywhere. Certainly nowhere in the vicinity of the latitude and longitude we needed to find. So it was strictly a cross country hike, a real adventure pointing the GPS in front of us like a water wand.

We’d plugged in the coordinates from the sheriff’s report, which documented exactly where the helicopter had landed when it arrived to extract Sergio from the mess he’d made. And we knew also from the same report where he’d been found and where the fire had been burning. Plus, we’d had help in pinpointing the exact locations from sheriff’s deputy and chopper pilot Dave Weldon, who’d been the one flying that afternoon when he and his partner, Rocky Laws, rescued Martinez.

Past the spreading grassland of Kessler Flats, the terrain drops away down a fairly steep slope and then flattens out again for a bit until it runs into a leafy line of trees growing alongside a little creek. This time of year, it’s narrow enough to step over. Immediately on the other side, we had to scramble up a serious incline to find the tiny level spot where Weldon had perched the helicopter the day of the fire.

No one can know how far Sergio Martinez actually wandered that day trying to find either his buddy or his truck. He told Weldon and Laws he’d been all the way to the bottom of a rugged canyon that falls off precipitously immediately east of where he ended up. Standing out there where Sergio stood, it’s hard to imagine why he would do such a thing. It’s a long way down and ridiculously steep, much steeper than the terrain we’d covered.

I had to wonder why he would choose such a rugged path and think he could possibly be retracing his steps. It doesn’t make sense that he couldn’t have picked out a landmark or two to steer by. But then it’s difficult to imagine, now that the fire has cleared the terrain, what Sergio’s visibility would have been at that time. Judging by Weldon’s report and the remaining black skeletons of once-mature scrub oak, the brush around him towered up to 15 feet.

When they spotted him from the air, led in by the smoke, Sergio was sitting on a low jumble of rocks. Just downwind from him, edging uphill toward the top of a broad knoll, a patch of chaparral about 50 yards square, or roughly half a football field, was burning. And the wind was already blowing at 20 to 30 mph.

Sergio couldn’t have seen the Country Estates from his seat on the rocks. He would’ve been looking east toward Cuyamaca, Middle Peak and North Peak, the heart of the Lagunas where 400 year old conifers had towered over generations of San Diegans drawn to the cool green quiet of Rancho Cuyamaca State Park. A nearly sacred place, a natural cathedral, irreplaceable. Within the week it would be reduced to ash and firewood.

The Country Estates lay to the southwest. You have to walk uphill a little farther to the top of a gentle knoll rising behind Sergio's rock pile. And that day there was a fire in the way. But when we reached the top of the knoll we could see the estates clearly, even the water tank on Thornbush Road where CDF Battalion Chief Kelly Zombro and NFS Division Chief Hal Mortier were waiting and watching that Saturday night to see exactly what this little fire was going to do.

The four miles between Sergio and the two chiefs covers some of the roughest terrain in Southern California: the San Diego River drainage. The mountains are steep here, I’d say 60 to 70 degrees as a general rule, and in some places approaching vertical. The gorge itself is a slash cut deep into nearly barren earth. In the rainy season, 40 foot waterfalls cascade from one notch in the topography to the next below it. A couple of trails wind down to the river itself. One of these bleeds off the end of Eagle Peak Road, two miles of ruts and boulders hugging the side of the mountain like a string of lights on a Christmas tree. One false step and the world falls away. It’s a full two miles in, but getting back out is the part I’d worry about.

I'd often imagined what the terrain was like where Sergio wandered for so long and got so hopelessly lost. That's why I wanted to see it. Perhaps I should've expected it would be different than I'd thought it would be. But still I was surprised to find it much less wild, less intimidating than in my imagination, though definitely on the edge of rugged. A few things do become perfectly clear once you’re out there where Sergio ended his long day’s journey into exhaustion. First, you’re a long way out in the sticks and a healthy hike in from the nearest road. On the other hand, you can turn in a circle and see nearly everyplace the fire went from here, which makes you realize that nothing is really all that far away, not the Country Estates or Barona or Lakeside. Not Poway or Scripps Ranch or Tierrasanta or Miramar. Not Alpine or Crest or even the Lagunas. And certainly not Julian or Wynola, where Firefighter Steve Rucker died fighting the flames.

Fanning out in all directions as it did, running with the wind, first southwest and then due east, when the Santa Anas died and the onshore breezes returned, the Cedar Fire was equally well positioned from this remote spot in the Cleveland National Forest to hit any and all of those locales in a straight run.

It seemed so very far away when we first heard of it. Miles and miles. But distance, like time, is relative. And the journey that took us so long by car and on foot is nothing to a bird, a helicopter or a wildfire.

It's Over. Or Is It?

The Sopranos has faded into television history, not with a bang, as so many hoped, or a whimper, as so many feared. Instead creator David Chase, whose every episode was stitched together by carefully chosen music, completed his saga of America's favorite mobster with a Soprano family dinner at a wholesome, old-fashioned diner, set to the soundtrack of Journey's tune "Don't Stop Believin'" on the jukebox. After languishing suspiciously on every person in the place, the camera zooms in on Tony looking up--whether at his daughter Meadow, who's just arriving, or a mob assassin stepping out from the crowd, we'll never know for sure, because at that moment the screen goes blank. BLANK! And then the credits roll for the very last time.

So after all the speculation about what would happen to Tony in the end, Chase fooled us all by refusing to end much of anything. Except for top New York mafia man, Phil Leotardo, who did get popped, literally, which not so neatly put an end to the New York/New Jersey rumble that caused so much bloodshed last week. Instead of closure, Chase leaves us with an unmistakable message, via Journey. (Oh, Randy Jackson should be so proud tonight.)

Some will win, some will lose
Some were born to sing the blues
Oh, the movie never ends
It goes on and on and on and on

O.K. David, I get it. I'll admit; I was upset at first. Like everyone else, I expected, I wanted you to wrap things up with a neatly tied ribbon. But I defer to your creative genius. It really is better this way, believin' Tony's still out there somewhere, still doing this thing of his, still venting his mother issues to a therapist (any therapist), still buying his family's love with diamonds and BMWs, still holding it all together despite never knowing which stranger walking through which door will be the one to put a bullet through his brain. Ah, but we'll miss you, T. Salute.

Pomp and Circumstance

It's graduation time again, and again our family has reasons to be proud. My nephew Luke graduated from the University of Illinois with a degree in computer engineering (yes, he's very brainy!) and immediately afterward was commissioned as an ensign in the U.S. Navy. Anchors aweigh, Lucas! Closer to home, Charter finally earned kudos after five years of playing second fiddle to super-sister Terra. Last week, the big goofy guy graduated from therapy dog prep school! This means he's on his way to becoming credentialed by a national therapy organization and beginning therapy visits. Who knows what sort of therapy work Charter will most enjoy, but it was wonderful seeing him do well in this class. He far surpassed my insulting expectations, and best of all, he loved it. I'd never seen him so happy, as the photo above indicates. By the way, it would be nice if not all doggy caps and gowns were sized for shih tzus!

Recent News Briefs

1. I was wrong about Alberto Gonzalez. He's surprised me by really hanging in there, although controversy over the fired federal attorneys is still swirling, and he's had to throw another of his underlings to the sharks in a further, though apparently unsuccessful, attempt to end the furor. Bush came out yet again today voicing his support for his fellow Texan, so stay tuned.

2. Bob saw a mountain lion in our front yard! Half the people we've told about this were horrified. This population is best represented by Lauren's response: "Holy shit!" The other half were thrilled, as exemplified by my friend Jeri's "How cool!" Bob and I fall into this latter group. And yet, we don't want to be as naive about this newly manifested reality of life in the chapparal as we were about wildfires. Mountain lions are big, usually hungry predators uniquely equipped to kill big game, deer for example. So they're entirely capable of taking out most any domestic animal or hapless human.

Fortunately, however, mountain lions command a huge territory, whole counties even, so it's likely this one was just passing through and we'll never see him or her again. It's equally likely this was not the first time a lion has visited Terra Nova. They're not often seen after all. It's also comforting that the statistics are in our favor. There have only been about a dozen instances of mountain lions attacking humans in California since 1870. Yes, eighteen seventy. Still, I'm gonna keep my eyes peeled for big stray cats from now on!

3. "American Idol" and "The Sopranos," two of the three t.v. shows I watch every week (House is the third), are spiraling to a close. (Could there be two more disparate examples of television programming?) Idol has been fairly lackluster all season, and with Melinda Doolittle's premature departure last week, who even cares whether Blake or Jordin ends up on top? Jordin is my pick; she's the most Idol-ly. But all four finalists will have music careers after this, so big deal. Go ahead and cue the confetti.

"The Sopranos", however, is getting meatier and more mysterious with each passing week. Now with only two episodes left until the series finale, it's impossible to predict what's going to happen to Tony and his two families. Last night's installment, which portrayed everyone's favorite mafioso at the height of both paternal tenderness and sociopathic brutality, was as brilliant as they come and equally excruciating to watch. It's going to be hard waiting two weeks now for the penultimate episode. (Some HBO special next Sunday night. Gee, thanks, guys.)

4. Here's a recipe for a surefire mood booster. Mix a bunch of long-time friends you don't often get to see with three days off, the natural beauty of Boulder, Colorado, and 450 Newfoundland dogs. I wasn't going to go to this year's Newfoundland National Specialty, especially since I'd gotten to go to Westminster, but I'm glad I did. You just can't stay sad for long in the company of Newfies.

My Father, Myself

This time a week ago, I was sitting in a hospital waiting room in North Carolina while a doctor rearranged my father’s plumbing. It’s been a faulty system for at least three years now, the victim of rampaging prostate cancer that got away from the doctors almost a decade ago. Since then, it’s been a game of medical chess, a series of moves calculated to outsmart the cellular pawns of a clever and malicious disease. And through it all, my father has chosen to remain remarkably optimistic and upbeat, refusing to give up despite numerous setbacks that had us all bracing for the big good-bye.

“Your father is incredible,” the urologist confirmed last Friday morning in the hallway outside the exam room where he’d just seen Dad. “For every one like him, there are 15 others who would’ve been dead two or three years ago.”

“He’s an incredible person,” I agreed, working to keep my voice even.

Half an hour later, after several unsuccessful attempts to replace the plastic tubing that now substitutes for Dad’s broken plumbing, the doctor looked me straight in the eye. “You came at the right time,” he said.

He went on to explain that since he couldn’t fix the problem in the office, we’d have to reconvene at the hospital—the sooner the better—where he’d attempt a surgical solution. He left the room then to cue his nurses. My father’s wife was already out making phone calls. Daddy and I were alone. He seemed worn out.

“It doesn’t look good, honey,” he said. “There’s something going on in there, some kind of obstruction.”

I reached out and squeezed his knee, tried to look reassuring, tried to keep my eyes from filling. But his knee was all bones. He’s five eleven, “six foot when I’m scared,” he used to joke, and down to 162 pounds. I wondered if he was feeling that extra inch now. But then I couldn’t remember ever in my 54 years seeing my father afraid. Sad, for sure. Frustrated. Weary even. But afraid? I don’t think so. He must’ve hidden it well.

He was Hollywood handsome once, tall and lean, with lush dark hair, blue eyes and a perfect smile. He could hike through the mountains all day in a pair of rubber waders, fly rod in hand, searching for the perfect hole on the perfect trout stream, and not even be disappointed if he didn’t catch anything. Just being out in the woods was what mattered to him.

It’s hard to see him these days, shuffling along in his bathrobe behind a walker, the catheter tube looping down his leg. His hair is white now, thin and fuzzy from chemo. Except for doctor’s appointments, he hardly leaves the house, hardly even gets out of bed except for a late breakfast at the kitchen table or to watch a little T.V. from the comfort of a living room rocker, an afghan spread across his lap, trailing to the floor.

When he checked into the surgery clinic last Friday, I wedged myself into the tiny admissions office behind him and my step-mother while they answered questions and he signed papers. The admitting clerk was a young woman with fiercely teased and shingled hair, brassy blonde in front, orange red behind, topped off by a darker line of roots showing through a center part. She kicked things off by addressing Dad as “sweetheart.”

I wanted to stop her right then and there. Wanted to say, excuse me, let me introduce you to my father. Despite what you seem to think, he is not a child. Not four, but 84 years old, and once upon a time, long before you were born, he ran this city. He is every bit that same person sitting here right now, with the same intelligence, the same capabilities and the same sensibilities, and you should address him with respect.”

I wanted to say that, but another part of me was desperately channeling the Dali Lama, who says in every circumstance of life you have the option of being kind, so be kind, be kind, be kind. And still another part of me, a long-ago part that comes surging back whenever I return to the green trees and red bricks of my hometown, was trying to remind me of something I’ve known since way back then: “Sandra, this is the South. People say those sorts of things here; they don’t mean anything by it.”

I knew I should let it go; two out of three voices agreed. But that third part of me was just too angry, too insulted for my father’s sake. Hadn’t he suffered enough without having to endure the condescension of some tacky redneck tramp? I couldn’t let it go. I had to stand up for him.

So after I’d helped Dad and his wife shuffle out of the tiny room and off to the elevators on their way to the surgical floor, I told them I’d be right there and let the door close behind them. Then I turned back to the admissions clerk, Joyce, her name tag told me.

“Joyce,” I said, trying to keep my voice low and kind enough to placate the Dali Lama. “You called him ‘sweetheart’. That’s so demeaning to an elderly patient. He’s not a toddler.”

Joyce stood behind her desk with her hands stuffed into the pockets of her blue medical smock and smiled at me. “Bitch,” she was probably thinking, but she just kept on smiling. “I’m sorry,” she said. “I didn’t realize. I’ll try to do better.” I rambled on for another 30 seconds or so, repeating myself until she repeated her apology, which made me feel embarrassed enough to finally make an awkward exit.

Upstairs I found Dad and his wife and reported that I’d had a little talk with our disrespectful admissions clerk. My father looked confused.

“Why?” my step-mother asked for both of them.

“She called him sweetheart. It’s disrespectful.”

My step-mother looked confused. “Well, people say that,” she said. “Nobody thinks anything of it.”

It’s taken me a week, but I realize now it wasn’t my father’s honor I felt so compelled to protect. It was me. I’m losing him, and I know it. I didn’t want to be reminded, especially not by a stranger with atrocious hair, that my father, my strong, handsome, incredible father, while still all of that, is also old and sick and feeble and dying. Because when I allow myself to think of life without him, I am adrift in sorrow.

Watch Out, Alberto!

Things are getting stickier and stickier for U.S. Attorney General Alberto Gonzalez. New disclosures from his own former chief of staff Kyle Samson--yes, the same guy the White House scapegoated and dumped in hopes of making an ugly issue go away--contradict Alberto's denials that he was in on pre-firing conversations about the eight U.S. attorneys sacked, as we all now know, at the direction of the White House. As a result, the Capitol Hill clamor for the AG's resignation is rising on both sides of the aisle, with Republican Rep. Lee Terry undoubtedly speaking for many of his colleagues in saying, "I trusted him before but can't now."

In the midst of this tumult, President Bush has once again weighed in, calling Gonzalez an "honorable and honest" man who retains his "full confidence." I'm going to gloss right over my inclination to wonder what Bush even knows about the concepts of honor and honesty and instead leap to my point of immediate concern. Hello? Alberto? George W. Bush has gone out of his way a second time now to underscore his support for you. This is the kiss of death. The. Kiss. Of. Death. Can you hear me, Alberto? Alberto?

Well, obviously not. But no doubt you've already figured this out on your own. No doubt you're spending the weekend writing your resignation speech. Something about how you still maintain your integrity and innocence. Consequently, the president is justified in his steadfast support for you. But because this situation has become so controversial and divisive. Because it is sapping energy and attention away from the overarching mandate of our time, i.e., the global war on terror, you have decided, for the good of the country, yea, for the good of the world, to resign your position. You are going back to Texas to spend more time with your family. And the president has graciously, albeit reluctantly, accepted your decision, which by the way, was yours alone and not in any way, not in any way whatsoever, influenced by the White House.

So you go, Alberto. You keep writing. Polish it all up. And go ahead and start practicing your delivery. I predict you've only got a day or so, end of the week at most, until showtime.

Mr. John at the Garden

I'd forgotten this, but Elton John was also born on March 25. (And Gloria Steinem, my childhood friend Mary Ann Gatwood's father, and my Starbucks partner, Adam, who told me last week with obvious concern that 22 feels so old to him, especially since he's dating a woman of only 20.) No doubt Sir Elton--Mr. John to The New York Times--partied the hardest of all of us, celebrating with a big concert at Madison Square Garden.

Having spent a week at The Garden just last month during Westminster, I can tell you that despite its legendary reputation, the place has the ambiance of . . . . Well, I was going to say a helicopter hanger. But then I remembered I actually visited a helicopter hanger recently, when I interviewed a couple of sheriff's department pilots for my book, and it was much nicer than Madison Square Garden. So I'll just say that The Garden is a dump with a whole lot of history behind it. Kinda like the Alamo. Clearly, however, it holds a special place in Sir Elton's heart, as Times writer Nate Chinen explains:

Elton John never seemed like the kind of guy to shrug off a big occasion. So it was natural, perhaps even inevitable, that he would celebrate his 60th birthday at Madison Square Garden. His sprawling concert on Sunday night featured no onstage candles – not even "Candle in the Wind" – but felt ceremonial enough without them. There were dedications, recollections and a shower of confetti. A banner was unfurled from the rafters, bearing a giant number 60 under Mr. John's name.

That last flourish actually commemorated something other than a birthday: Mr. John's 60th performance in the arena. That's more than any other single artist, as the finer print under the numeral made clear. Small wonder that Mr. John wanted to spend his birthday at the Garden: it's obviously a place where he feels at home.

Obviously. But the real reason I took note of the rocketman's birthday bash was that he seems to share not only my birthdate but also my perspective about getting older. As Chinen notes, one of the evening's final songs was "I'm Still Standing."

The song's lyrics amount to a bitter reprisal, but Mr. John made them sound more jubilant than angry. "Don't you know I'm still standing better than I ever did," he sang. "Looking like a true survivor, feeling like a little kid."

They Say It's Your Birthday

Well, it's my birthday, too, yeah. And I had a good time. Bob had to leave early this morning for meetings in D.C. But it was still a nice day. Quiet. Relaxing. Just putzing around the house. Enjoying the luxury of a legitimate day off, a day devoted to nothing in particular. I even watched a couple of old Magnum P.I. episodes via DVD. The ultimate in goofing off. And then tonight, a lovely dinner in Del Mar with E.K. and a friend. So I'm 54. Geez. It sounds terrible. But you know something? The older I get, the younger I feel. There's just so much I've already done, so much I don't need to worry about anymore. And so much more to do, so much more to look forward to. I remember being 14 and 24. I was so young, and I felt young. But when I turned 34 and even 44, I'd already begun to worry about getting old. No more. So maybe it's not the Beatles I should be quoting. Maybe it's Dylan. Because I really was so much older then. I'm younger than that now. (No pun intended.)

Political Prediction

I'm a little worried about U.S. Attorney General Alberto Gonzales. He's neck deep in the latest White House scandal: the firing of eight U.S. attorneys, including San Diego's Carol Lam, who built the case against former Republican Congressman, now federal prisoner, Duke Cunningham. Recently revealed evidence suggests these eight public servants lost their jobs not on the basis of poor performance, but because they irritated the president. An e-mail exchange actually published on the front page of The New York Times proves there was even West Wing talk about firing all 93 U.S. attorneys nationwide, just wiping the slate clean, the better to replace them with Bush cronies. None other than Supreme Court justice wannabe Harriet Miers thought up that brilliant idea. But back to Alberto. I'm worried because Bush has been making a big point of saying he has "complete confidence" in him. Normally, if you worked for the president and found yourself in hot water you'd be glad to hear that. But we all know that Bush is a pathological liar. He just can't help it. He lies and lies and lies and seems to naively believe that people still believe him. Well, I don't. And if Alberto Gonzales does, he should do lunch with Michael Brown or Donald Rumsfeld. And then go home and polish up his resume.

My Kingdom for a Cursor

I'm having technical difficulties. It all started after Lilo went ripping around my study one day when our wireless LAN was on the fritz and I had my laptop cabled to the printer. I came in after the fact to find the laptop on the tile floor and the printer teetering precariously on the edge of disaster. All seemed to be well at first, but upon closer inspection I found a hinge on the laptop had popped out a bit, which causes the screen to flop over backwards once it's pushed past center. O.K. not so great, but not so bad either.

A day or two later, the real nightmare began when I discovered my cursor has taken on a life of its own. Sometimes it drifts to the right or left, all the way across the screen until it hits the edge and disappears. Sometimes it rises like a balloon to the top of the page or falls like a rock to the bottom. Until it disappears. Sometimes it drifts on the diagonal, all the way to a corner. Where it disappears. And sometimes it runs back and forth across the page, like a swimmer doing laps. Before it finally disappears. But mostly it just disappears for no apparent reason. And then I have to experiment with various decidedly low-tech ways of making it reappear.

Intuitively, it seems that tracing big swirly patterns on the track pad should do the trick. When this doesn't work, in other words, about 90 percent of the time, I try repeating these swirly motions while pressing the track pad harder and harder. Which sometimes works. Bob suggested a more macho approach--simply beating on the machine--which actually seems to be the most effective method. So I've been playing a lot of computer bongo lately.

I spend so much time with my computer it feels almost like an extension of myself. Almost human. You know, like HAL or Data. So it seems it should gradually get better, like a person with a bad cold. But it's not getting better. If anything, I'd have to say it's getting worse. Right now, for example, as I type, my cursor is acting totally spastic, jumping up and down the left margin of the screen with every keystroke. When I stop it drops toward the bottom. And disappears. As hard as I try to deny it, this is not the behavior of a healthy cursor.

I wish I knew what it is inside my laptop that controls the cursor, what exactly about its recent unfortunate accident made it go haywire. I have this naive impression that if I only knew what it is, I could fix it myself. I fixed my washing machine once. Took it all apart, put it back together, and it worked just fine. That was 30 years ago, but it still ranks in my mind as a great mechanical moment.

Whatever's going on with this crazy cursor, it's gotta be a hardware problem. Something way, way beyond me. Which means I'm going to have to get a new laptop pretty soon. I've known this day was coming. I knew it the moment I let my "whatever happens, we'll send a guy out to
fix it" extended warranty expire. I hated to do that, but I had to. This little Latitude is almost 3 1/2 years old after all, and since the battery can't hold a charge for more than 11 or 12 seconds anymore, it required constant life support even before this cursor business started up. So it didn't make sense to invest another $250 in Ole Betsy when I can buy a next-generation model for only a thousand or so.

I did hate to drop that warranty though because I really used it. At least three different Dell repair reps have replaced various parts of my computer and some more than once. Motherboards, keyboards, outboards, inboards, whatever. The first of these guys came once to my office and once to the house. I found him a little creepy. Hardly said a word; couldn't be chatted up. All serious and morose. ("He seemed like a nice enough guy," said John Doe, the suspect's neighbor, "kinda quiet though, usually kept to himself.") Plus, he told me my machine was so gritty inside it looked like it had been to Iraq. He meant that literally, having actually worked on computers that had been to Iraq. Or so he said. Now I ask you, how can that be possible? I know I use my computer a lot. O.K., so I use it almost all the time. And I use it everywhere. In bed. On the couch. In the car. Sitting on the floor. Hello? That's the whole beauty of having a laptop. And I leave it open. And there's a lot of dust where I live. I admit all that. But geez, I live in a house. With a roof and walls and a central vacuum. Not a tent in a war zone.

Thank goodness for Dell Guy No. 2, a grandfatherly type who was as outgoing as Guy No. 1 was reserved. And yet he did not feel the need to guilt trip me about the amount of dirt clogging my hard drive. What a breath of fresh air! But after taking my machine all apart and then putting it back together, Guy No. 2 had a couple of screws left over and seemed totally baffled as to why. Uh... yeah. Really. Still, everything worked just fine. And besides, Dell Guy No. 3, who seemed both psychologically sound and technically competent, fixed the problem I'd called him about and then cleaned up No. 2's mistakes to boot.

But that was then, and now my cursor is playing hide and seek on me, and I can't do much of anything without it, and I have no more Dell Guys standing by on retainer, just waiting to come fix it. So I'm afraid the end is near for my faithful D600. Time to start shopping for a replacement. In the meantime, I really think I'd better go run a backup.

Terra Talks About Therapy

Terra was asked to contribute an article to the newsletter published by Paws'itive Teams, a San Diego organization devoted to training and deploying service and therapy dogs. Here's what she had to say about her work in its new goal-directed therapy program. I hope it gives you a good idea of what therapy dogs do and what an important difference they make in the world--not to mention what a special girl Terra is!

Hi, I’m Terra, a champion Newfoundland, an obedience dog, a water rescue dog, a draft dog—and a therapy dog. Yes, I know, it’s quite a resume, but Newfoundlands are working dogs after all, so we have to stay busy! Some people wonder which of my many jobs is my favorite. Well … I do love the bright lights and glory of the show ring, but honestly? There’s nothing better than being a therapy dog!

Why? Because it’s a win-win situation. As a therapy dog, my job is to make people happy; in return, I get tons of compliments and attention. And usually a few treats, too. Besides, I love seeing people perk up when I walk into a room. They may be sad or grumpy or bored, even sick or hurt, but the minute I show up, they start feeling better.

I began my therapy career as a pup, learning from my big brother, Epic, who worked at a convalescent center. Epic had gone to Paws’itive Team’s Therapy Prep School with my human partner, Sandra, so he knew the drill. “Kid,” he said. “You’re gonna be a natural. Just wag your tail, smile and kiss people.” Epic was right. Therapy was easy for me. And so much fun!

I’ve had lots of therapy jobs since then. At the library. At a family shelter in downtown San Diego. Sometimes I put on my “crisis response dog” vest, and Sandra and I drive to disaster sites to cheer up anyone who’s scared or upset. About 3 months ago, I started a great new job in “goal-directed therapy.” This means I get to visit with people and help them learn new things! Our program is called Paws’itive Animal-Assisted Therapy or PAAT for short. Here’s how it works.

Once a week, Sandra and I go to a special high school, where we meet the other PAAT teams and head off together to the classrooms. First we visit with “transition” students, young adults, ages 18-22, with special challenges like Down’s Syndrome, cerebral palsy or brain injuries. Each dog team works one on one with a student, practicing whatever he or she needs to work on. For example: some students need to learn to use their words and voices better. So their teacher and Sandra teach them my favorite words, and if they can say something I know loudly and clearly enough, I’ll sit or lie down or speak to let them know they got it right. Boy, do they get excited then! They smile and laugh! You can tell they feel proud of themselves. Some students need to exercise their muscles, so I let them brush me. Or they throw one of my toys; I go get it and bring it back so they can throw it again. Sometimes they hold my leash, and we go for a short walk.

Each of us dogs works with one or two students, then we take a break. Next, we visit the “at risk” students—kids who get extra attention at this school to help them succeed in school. Our human partners show these students how to take care of us, help us practice our favorite behaviors and even teach us new things. At first, some of them act like they don’t want to work with us. But pretty soon most of them realize how cool dogs really are, how much we like them and want to play with them. And then they get involved and actually have fun. That’s when the treats start flying. Yes!! So far we’ve taught these kids some of our agility, water rescue and basic obedience moves. They don’t always show it, but inside they feel happy and proud to be our partners for a day. (Dogs just know these things.)

Then it’s time to go home. Sometimes Sandra stops by Rubio’s on the way and buys a treat for us to share. When they’re all gone, I curl up on the back seat and take a nap. Making so many people happy can be exhausting. But for a therapy dog, there’s nothing like a good day’s work to guarantee sweet dreams.

Spring Census

Terra Nova is conspicuously short on rabbits. Time was, Bob and I would make a game of predicting how many would dart across our path between the main road and our driveway. But lately I've seen just one or two here and there. From this dramatic turn of events, I can deduce only one explanation: all those hawks and kites and owls and eagles soaring over the canyon, all those coyotes skulking from shadow to shadow, the occasional bobcat spiriting its way through the underbrush, must've been dining fairly well all winter.

Fortunately, it's spring. The finches are chirping outside the windows. Lizards are scurrying over the rocks again. The first treefrog has returned to my porch fountain. And though we've yet to see them, neighbors say the snakes are waking up from hibernation, too. This means, no doubt, that any surviving rabbits are busy doing what rabbits do best. I'm expecting to see a resurgence in the population anytime now. I really hope they hurry. Easter is just around the corner.

Oyasumi nasai Laji san

Yesterday I got the sad news that my good friend Henry Large died last Thursday, and I'm frankly having quite a time adjusting to the idea of a world without Henry in it somewhere. There was no one remotely like him in my life, and never will be. I knew he'd been sick for quite a while; he hadn't been able to get together for our usual Starbucks moments for the last few months.

I'd been calling and e-mailing to check on him, and each time we talked he sounded terribly weak, but each time he assured me he'd gradually regain his characteristic vigor. The doctors said so. "We'll have time together in the future," he wrote me. He didn't tell me, as his wife did yesterday, that he'd recently been diagnosed with cancer on top of his other ailments. And now, just like that it seems, he's gone. My mind can't get past this one question: What will I do without Henry? I honestly haven't figured it out yet.

Henry long ago lost patience with the church, so no services are scheduled. His wife plans to scatter his ashes on a mountain in Montana where they both were born. Henry would definitely like that. But it doesn't seem right to let him fade away from my life without any sort of pomp or circumstance. So I've been wondering what I could do to honor him at his passing. All I've been able to come up with is this excerpt from my manuscript. I hope it gives you even a hint of Henry.

Our friend Henry Large is an acquired taste. I’d met him a decade before, in an extension class on Japanese language and culture where his studious demeanor, arcane grammar questions and brown polyester wardrobe quickly set him apart as the class geek. Eventually, however, I’d learned there was more to Henry. Much more.

He’d grown up during the 40s, a smartass kid in an unusually refined Montana family. His father, a noted opthamologist, responded to his son’s adolescent pranks by banishing him to military school. From there Henry edged west, going to college in Seattle, working in some undefined capacity for the CIA, even moving to Korea with his bride, Wilma, another fearless Montanan.

They’d lived there for a couple of years, time Henry spent learning his first Asian language and collecting a boatload of grisly stories that seemed to come pouring out of him whenever people were trying to eat. Medieval sounding tales about Korean toilet habits, violent street brawls, and severed heads displayed on spikes.

“Laji san,” I said to him once, using the Japanese derivation of his name as we did in class. “Do you just say everything that comes into your mind?”

He cocked his head, and his eyes bored into me with geekish gravity. “Sandra,” he replied. “I have no unexpressed thought.”

Once in the midst of an elaborate sushi dinner at the home of our Japanese teacher, Henry tanked up on sake and launched into such a graphic and distasteful narrative that Bob, seated beside him, laid a firm hand on his arm.

“Henry,” he said, “it’s time for an unexpressed thought.”

Over the years after their return from Korea, Henry and Wilma had owned a number of bars, a fairly substantial cabinet-making operation, and a menagerie of extraordinary animals, including a huge, precocious dog named Goopa and a rather demanding cat named Doo Doo. All at one time or another I heard about over coffee and Japanese lessons, a habit Henry and I continued on our own long after we’d exhausted the extension catalog’s course offerings. By then of course I’d discovered in Henry a brilliant mind, philosophic insight, surprising sensitivity--and a trusted friend.

Recently, Henry had announced he was going into real estate. So when we’d found a likely house just weeks before, we’d ask him to help us make an offer. And when we’d lost it to a higher bidder, Henry had taken it harder than we had.

“Now don’t you let your lip drag the ground over this one, Sandra," he said. “We’ll just keep looking until we find something even better.”

We did. But it took some doing. After I found the online real estate listing for the house that would become our new home, I called Henry, and we arranged to see the place the next day during my lunch hour. Henry met me at the office, and I climbed into his big green pickup truck for the trek to Wildcat Canyon. It was a wild, circuitous ride.

By the time Henry and I finally stumbled upon the right mailbox and turned off the asphalt onto the right dirt road, we’d explored a half dozen others and asked directions from a man on horseback. At the turnoff, the first property we passed was a mess of twisted metal and heavy equipment surrounding a couple of rusted
old house trailers. From there, the gravel road led straight ahead past a neatly kept geodesic dome and then dead-ended against the closed gate of a chain link fence. Our only option now was a sharp left turn that left us looking straight up at what had to be the steepest skinniest sliver of asphalt this side of Nepal. Henry sized it up in a single word. “HELL-o,” he said and slipped the truck into low gear.

So hello, Henry. And goodnight, my friend. But no need for goodbyes. Your stories, your humor, your spirit, your friendship will always be a part of me.

A Winter Gone to the Dogs

So much has transpired since I last made the effort to update this blog. To those few of you who actually still check once in a while to see if there's anything new to read, I apologize for my long hiatus. But sometimes it's true that the more things change, the more things stay the same, so no one here should be surprised to learn the common denominator in my life for these past 3 months could well be described as dog-related.

All the Youngers spent Christmas in Arizona, surrounded by seven canines, one for every human, and even at that, Lauren's 18-month-old Newfy pup, Lilo, stayed behind in Seattle. (For the time being anyway.) Afterwards, Bob and I left our two Newfs on the ranch with Terri and John, while we drove farther east to Albuquerque. We arrived in sync with the worst winter storm anyone in New Mexico could remember. Within hours, the airport and freeways were shut down, so we spent the next three days snowed in at the Hotel Albuquerque, attending our second Richard Rohr conference. It was tough sledding for some 300 conference registrants who couldn't get there, including four in our own party turned away in mid-air just 5-10 minutes from the airport. (Excuse me, in Albuquerque, they call it "the sunport.") But for those of us already in place, looking out on a winter wonderland from warm, Southwestern style rooms, equipped with broad-band wireless Internet, and just an elevator ride away from a nice restaurant, it was a different story. Personally, I was pretty much in heaven before Father Rohr said a word. But as we've come to expect, he took us a few big steps further in that direction. Funny that a couple of Lutherans should end up looking to a Franciscan priest for spiritual insight, but Rohr has provided exactly what we've found lacking in Protestant circles for the last several years: a deeper way of thinking and talking, a larger way of living. Here's a typical Rohr nugget: we don't think ourselves into new ways of living so much as we live our way into new ways of thinking. In other words, God speaks through our experiences to our inner selves, the real selves that usually can't wedge a word into the incessant mental babbling of our self-made, resume-polishing, public personae.

But back to the dogs. We drove home by way of Sierra Vista, where we picked up Terra and Charter, whom Terri had already happily converted into ranch dogs, making for a rather fragrant ride on to California and mandatory baths for both pups before either was allowed into the house. Within the next week, the Newf population at Terra Nova jumped to three when Lilo arrived from Seattle. At first, we considered it an extended visit, just long enough to give Lauren a break from the considerable demands of single puppy-parenting. But seeing Lilo blend seamlessly into our larger "pack" and quickly abandon a number of neurotic behaviors that had really begun to worry Lauren, confirmed her diagnosis of severe separation anxiety and convinced us all that Lilo belonged at Terra Nova for good. Lauren has since been down to visit her "baby girl," and pronounced her happy and well-adjusted, a denouement that helps ease the heartbreak of giving her up. In the meantime, Bob and I have had to adjust to Lilo's impressive repertoire of puppy antics, but we're wowed by her exuberance, intelligence and athleticism. Terra and Charter seem somewhat less in love with Lilo than we are, but they've been good sports about it, and if pressed, might actually admit she's a lot of fun to chase and wrestle with.

Finally, I have this astonishing dog-related news to report. EK and I went to Westminster! Yes, we were there, ringside no less, at the 131st episode of that granddaddy of all dog shows. We were there as the television cameras flashed live coverage from New York City's storied Madison Square Garden, images of the world's best-looking dogs and, in many cases, oddest-looking humans. We were part of the surreal interspecies insanity that inspired Christopher Guest's classic mockumentary, "Best in Show." It is a Camelot moment. An oxymoron of an event that gives people ordinarily consumed by slinging kibble, vacuuming fur, scrubbing slime and scooping poop a chance to don tuxes and sequins and show off their favorite canine companions under a nationwide spotlight.

For the uninitiated, let me try to explain the full glory of this experience. Sitting ringside at Westminster, not to mention partying with the judges and having your photo snapped with James, the dashing English springer spaniel crowned "best in show," is akin to sitting just behind the winning bench at the Superbowl, or midcourt for the NBA finals. And then partying with the triumphant team after the game. It's like sitting in the front row during the Oscars, on the aisle where the winners brush by you on their way to the podium. And then chatting it up with Helen Mirren, Jennifer Hudson and Martin Scorcese over drinks and hors d'ouevres afterward. It's like watching the Kentucky Derby from the owners' booth and then helping adjust the roses just so for the official photographs. I could go on.

Suffice it to say, it was a dream come true for both of us, made even sweeter by EK's own appearance on the green carpet with five other winners of Westminster Kennel Club scholarships for vet students--the reason for our trip and VIP treatment--and only slightly tarnished by our 3-day delay in flying home to California after a Valentine's Day ice storm shut down every New York airport. Snowed in twice in as many months! Hardly a typical winter for a Southerner turned Southern Californian. But a great one, especially for a dog lover.