Like a Thunderbolt

I'm pretty sure I saw a golden eagle soaring above the canyon today. A huge bird, too big for a hawk, but brown, not black like the crows and buzzards. I watched it until it disappeared into the chapparal more than a mile away. Thinking back on the sight of those strong wings sailing and rising effortlessly in the thermals reminds me of Tennyson's wonderful poem, "The Eagle."

He clasps the crag with crooked hands;
Close to the sun in lonely lands,
Ring’d with the azure world, he stands.

The wrinkled sea beneath him crawls;
He watches from his mountain walls,
And like a thunderbolt he falls.

Alfred Tennyson 1851

Power Lunch

My friend Claire never went to college, had a big career, made a fortune or got famous. But what she did do—raise a family of four children within a lasting marriage and spread the joy of Newfoundland dogs, along with a keen insight into the human heart—has made all the difference in countless lives, mine included. I had a rare chance to visit with her yesterday, and as always, it was a treat. She's in her seventies now, but her embrace was as strong as ever, her personality as vibrant, her intuition as rare. We enjoyed a lunch she had made herself at home in Tennessee and overnight shipped in frozen containers to share with her daughter JoAnn and friends here in San Diego. Lentil soup. Beef and barley. Homemade sandwich spreads and two kinds of cake. It was a small group. Claire and JoAnn, two other Newfoundland lovers and me.

Afterwards, I fired up my laptop and ran through a sampling of photos of the new house, the family, the Newfs. As always, Claire took it all in eagerly, punctuating the show with bits of sage commentary and encouragement. You are an inspiration, I told her as I packed up to leave. I don’t know why, she said, laughing and looking away. But you are, I said. You’re my Yoda. She cupped her hands on either side of her head. Big ears and all? she asked. I nodded. Wise are ye, I said. She looked away again. We hugged good bye, and she waved as I turned to back out of the driveway, feeling, as always when I’ve talked with Claire, that I'm okay, that life is still long and full of meaning, and that anything is possible, especially when you believe in dogs.

Story Time

Today, well yesterday now since it's 2:20 in the morning, my fire story became part of NPR's current Story Corps project. It just flowed out of me and listening to it myself on the way home via CD gave me goose bumps and made my eyes sting. It is an amazing story, a miracle story. I'm grateful to my friends Lena and Coleen who set up the interview and encouraged me to do it. I'm happy that a story from the Cedar Fire will be documented for posterity in the Library of Congress along with thousands of other stories from American life. And I'm more eager than ever to finish my book.

Update March 2, 2006: KPBS, our local NPR station, aired an excerpt this morning. You can listen to it here.(MP3 4:13min.)

Pot Shots

Obviously, I've been on a blogging hiatus, despite deep thoughts I wanted to share about marching to the Capitol in Washington on Martin Luther King Day and then Coretta Scott King's triumphant homegoing. My friend Peggy's Newfoundland, Baby, Charter's sister and Lilo's aunt, won big yesterday at Westminster. And, oh yes, remind me to tell you about senior diet cokes.

But this I can't let pass. The vice president of the United States of America, while out enjoying the rich man's sport of quail hunting on vast private ranches, shot a fellow hunter. Fortunately, the guy is okay. Cheney, on the other hand, has made himself fodder for delighted stand-up comedians everywhere. Here's a nice sampling put together by our friends at the AP: TV Joke Writers Take Shots at Cheney.

Major excitement!

Time spent in the car today with large salivating beast traveling to and from Palm Springs Kennel Club dog show: almost 7 hours
Total distance covered: 325 miles
Value of resulting 3-point major: priceless

Devil Winds

It's Jan. 6, the Christmas tree's still up, and it's hot. I don't mean unseasonably warm. I mean 92. I mean we had to turn on the air conditioner today. It's dry, too. My skin is stinging, and no amount of lotion seems to help for long. In Southern California, there's only one explanation for these meterological and dermatological phenomena. The Santa Anas are blowing.

Last night they were shrieking; the house was shivering and everything not nailed down outside was banging around. Our kitchen weather center at times registered 40 mph, and a few particularly fierce gusts no doubt kicked it even higher. It was way too noisy and way too reminiscent of Oct. 26, the night of the fire, for either of us to sleep. I knew it wasn't rational, but I'll admit it, I was flat out scared. Bob kept reassuring me; he also kept stepping outside to sniff for smoke.

I used to love the Santa Anas. They cleared the air and brought a few days of warm weather in the middle of a rainy winter. But now I understand why generations of Southern Californians have called them devil winds. For sure, they play a big role in the story of "the wildest fire." Here's an excerpt about the Santa Anas from my manuscript. (And you thought I wasn't working on the book, didn't you?)

"It was still warm when we left the restaurant around 10 that night. All week it had been into the 90s inland, an unusual occurrence in late October—except during Santa Ana weather. Santa Ana winds are a fabled Southern California phenomenon, sweeping in several times each winter through the mountains that separate Los Angeles and San Diego from the vast deserts to the east. And when they come, they do not come gently.

Santa Anas blow hot, dry and strong, sometimes for days, raising temperatures and tempers in their wake. By definition, they’re at least 25 knots (nearly 30 mph) in velocity and often gust to 50, 60 or more, especially at night or early in the morning when onshore ocean breezes subside.

Because they carry so much heat, most people think Santa Anas originate in the deserts, but they actually begin much farther away, as a high pressure system over the Great Basin, that vast plateau sandwiched between the Sierra Nevada and Rocky Mountains. Whenever a low pressure system off the Southern California coast coincides with a prevailing northeast wind, a huge atmospheric pinwheel starts to spin and tumble toward sea level. Picking up speed and heat as it descends and compresses, then drying as it warms, this enormous mass of air eventually collides with the corrugated topography of coastal Southern California, where it surges through narrow passes and canyons and out to sea.

Just such an episode inspired these memorable lines by mystery writer Raymond Chandler in “Red Wind:” "It was one of those hot dry Santa Anas that come down through the mountain passes and curl your hair and make your nerves jump and your skin itch. On nights like that every booze party ends in a fight. Meek little wives feel the edge of the carving knife and study their husbands' necks. Anything can happen."

Aside from triggering bar fights and domestic violence, Santa Anas can also damage structures and endanger travelers caught in high surf or wind shear conditions, not to mention gusts stiff enough to tip over RVs and tractor trailers. But Santa Anas are most notorious for feeding wildfires—lowering humidity, drying plants to tinder and literally fanning the flames. Especially in October, the last month of Southern California’s long, rainless summer season, when vegetation is already brittle dry, a Santa Ana can whip a random spark into a major conflagration. It's no coincidence that nearly every catastrophic wildfire documented here occurred during Santa Ana conditions."

Note to Self

At Starbucks, kid's hot chocolate and quad-shot espressos both come in the same tiny short cup. So next time, double check before handing them out at the drive through.

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