You can run but you can't hide...

The Universe has a sense of humor.

Back then, back there in Foster City, all was calm and peace. And I have photographs of a placid lake to prove it, too.

Although, although...

There was this thing on Friday evenings, just across that self-same lake—concerts, music concerts, rock concerts in fact. Well, they weren't always rock concerts. But often enough.

The folk of Foster City would gather, under the unremittingly blue sky that is Californian, and enjoy the entertainment en plein aire, as they say.

And we few...on the other side of the lake (did you know that sound travels oh so very well over water?) had a Friday evening that was inescapably entertained—whether we liked it or not.

It was a ripple in an otherwise peaceful existence there by the Bay of San Francisco. But a ripple that returned each and every Friday during the Summer months.

Aloft now in our, if not ivory at least a nice off-white shade, tower we comforted ourselves that this was one aspect in which present accommodations improved upon prior.

Did you know that Rockfest 2013 is held in Kansas City, MO? In fact it's not just 2013. It's a yearly event.

And it's held less than a mile from the above mentioned off-white tower.

And they started practicing on Friday evening.

There's a place for us...

...as the song goes.

Not one place, really, but many. The current one, here in Kansas City, does nicely thank you very much.

But last week I was back where I'd spent the past nineteen and more years—the San Francisco Bay Area. San Jose, in the main. I was there for work—and the second of two farewell lunches. My boss' boss had expressed displeasure at not being at the first of said lunches back before the year was new.

No problem. I'm always up for a free lunch—with apologies to Robert Heinlein.

Silicon Valley is a special place—and I don't even mean that in a sarcastic/sardonic way (the way some speak of San Francisco as "our 'special' city.")

There's a palpable sense that anything's possible. I'm quite sure that's true of many places but the place it's truest of for me is Silicon Valley. I had quite the run in the nearly two decades I spent there. I got to work (and still do) with some of the most creative people I've come across. I made, and got to visit with, friends who will be so for life.

For a techie, for such I am, running (in a figurative sense let me assure you) along 101 and finding Oracle, Google, Yahoo, Intel (with AMD not so far away), the Silicon Valley Microsoft campus (wherein they write much of their Apple software) or further afield to Palo Alto and HP, facebook, Xerox Parc (and I worked across the street from that storied place for a year way back when) one can't but get caught up in the possibilities.

I like the Midwest. This very morning I was caught up in a conversation with a young man I'd never met before and am likely not to meet again but we chatted, exchanged views, spent time.

Such is the stuff that makes us human.

But the Valley is also full of the creativity that makes us human also. And it was good to breathe that air again last week.

Dutiful Daughter

"I was afraid to have another daughter."

Ruth raised her eyebrow, but didn't say anything.

Anna Goldberg reached out, resting her hand on Ruth's arm. "It's not that I didn't want another daughter," she said, "it's just that...I was afraid."

Ruth's eyebrow went higher.

Anna nodded. "Yes, afraid. Boys are...different. You know?"

Ruth smiled.

"You expect them to get into trouble," Anna continued. "You can deal with that. But, your sister...she was always—"

"—perfect," Ruth completed for her mother.

Anna shrugged, her thin shoulders rising off the pale linen sheets for a moment.

"Yes," she said. "And I was afraid another daughter would be different."

Ruth laughed, resonant, self-deprecating.

"Well," she said, "you weren't wrong about that." Her face grew serious. "And yet," she said, "here I am and your perfect daughter, Myriam, is far away."

"She has her husband and children to care for," Anna said, growing animated.

Ruth held her hands up in front of her. "I don't disagree."

"If you had children," Anna said, "you would know."

"I have a mother," Ruth countered. "I know enough to be here when you need me."

They fell silent for a time, Ruth staring at the wall beside her mother's bed, Anna searching Ruth's face for the pain she knew was there.

"I'm sorry," she said finally. "Sorry for what I said. I know you can't..."

Ruth shook her head. "No, I can't have children. Not birth them anyway. Not even contribute to the process." Her voice wavered slightly. "But I knew that."

The only sound for a while was Anna's labored breathing. Then, "I knew you were different," Anna said, "not what I expected."

Ruth laughed again.

"I wasn't what I expected either, Mom," she said. "That took a lot of time and pain."

"But you're happy now?" Anna said.

Ruth shrugged. "I'm me now," she said. "Happy? Who's happy?"

Anna laughed and then convulsed from pain. Ruth gripped her hand until the spasm passed.

"Please," Anna said, her voice weak. "Please don't make me laugh. It hurts too much." She smiled.

Ruth smiled in answer. She looked around the room, little changed from the years when she was growing up. She looked at the large wardrobe that dominated the wall to the right of her mother's bed.

Anna saw her looking. "I used to find you in there almost every day when you were five years old," she said.

Ruth nodded. "Even younger," she said. "I loved the smell and feel of your clothes."

"You grew out of that," Anna said.

"I just switched to Myriam's," Ruth said. "She was closer to me in age."

Anna nodded and silence again fell in the room.

Ruth's gaze drifted to the photograph of her parents that stood on her mother's bedside table.

"Your father," Anna said, "he never understood—"

"My father," Ruth broke in, "understood perfectly well. It may have taken him time to deal with it, but he did. I was with him when he died."

"A dutiful daughter is a blessing," her mother said.

"Better than perfect?" Ruth asked with a smile.

Anna reached out and patted Ruth's arm. "Yes," she said. "Yes."

She looked at Ruth, searching her face. "I was afraid, as I said, of another daughter." She paused, and gripped Ruth's wrist tightly.

"But not now, not now. Even though it cost me a son, I'm happy I have my daughter Ruth here with me now."

Ruth placed her hand over her mother's. She frowned slightly at the reminder of who she had been, of the son Anna felt she had "lost".

"It's OK, Mom," she whispered. "I'm here. I've always been your daughter. I just didn't look like it for a while."

Anna nodded, saying nothing. She lay her head back on her pillow and closed her eyes.

Ruth sat, watching as her mother slept.

In a Distant Land

"We are far from our Home, far from our Father's house."

Ruth bowed her head as she listened to the words, words that echoed through the long years they'd lived here.

"We are home," she thought. "This is my father's house."

Her lips twitched slightly thinking what the others would say if they could hear her thoughts.

She looked up and caught her mother, Anna, watching her across the table. She schooled her face back into solemnity under her mother's gaze. Her obedience was rewarded by a slight nod.

"The sun that warmed our ancient land is a star that shines yet in our nights, the candle in the darkness calling to mind the light of the One who chose us."

Heads nodded around the table and a quiet murmur of assent arose here and there from the group.

The life within her moved and Ruth placed her hand on her belly. She smiled softly and caught her mother's matching smile. Ruth searched her mother's face. The fear that news of her pregnancy had awoken there had receded, subdued by the initial findings.

It was hard-won knowledge. The early histories told of heartache, of horror. Not enough had been known of the air here, the water here, the food they grew here. Enough to sustain life, yes.

But for new life to birth here, so far from where humans had first seen the light, much more needed to be learned.

That learning brought pain, brought death, brought an evil from within their hearts that burned away many of their number before it burned itself out.

They came together, held to who they were, learned what they needed to do to survive. Thus it had always been through the long years of their people.

Ruth looked again at her mother. The fear wasn't completely gone. That would not happen until the birth, until her child was examined and pronounced hale and whole.

Ruth smiled to herself as the celebration of life continued around her. Her mother would find other things to worry her then.

She, herself, was not afraid. Feeling the life move beneath her hand, Ruth knew her child would be found hale and whole.

This was their home now. Their long journey had led them here. Where they had come from was a distant place, only known in story, no longer in the memory of even the oldest of them.

Here was their home. Her child would be hale and whole, and human.

Human enough.

It was time...I suppose

My Whatever clock didn't make it.

We've discovered a number of things that didn't survive the move. I don't suppose this is a unique experience. I'm documenting the casualties, tables, chairs, a lamp, and so on. Yesterday I unpacked some more of the office. There was my Whatever clock, the one I'd had on the wall beside my desk.

It didn't work. Perhaps the battery? Alas, no. All the energizer bunnies in the world can't bring this one back. Sic transit and all that.

I've looked up replacement clocks but none, as yet that I've discovered, have the nice wood trim. I did find some wonderful "melting time" clocks — my fondness for Dalí almost won out.

I've also looked into replacement movements. They're quite inexpensive. A good thing that. Given my abilities as a handyman, I might need to buy several.


It's not as if there's a dearth of clocks around (even discounting the ones on the several phones and other computing devices decorating the place.)

I mean — there are all these others.



I suppose it was a good idea to get out of California — all these glass and china clocks. In earthquake country.

What were we thinking?

Well, I suppose this last one would have survived an earthquake. At least it wouldn't shatter.

House into a home...

Well, let's not get ahead of ourselves, here. There's a ways to go yet.

That said, the office cum TV room has taken shape. There will be adjustments, things that are out of place that will need to find where they belong. But the main elements are where they need to be. May have to move the laser printer. It's kind of front and center — upsetting the feng shui.

But the cat tree (reflected in the window) location was approved by both pusses — so we're doing something right.

It's a bit like the kitchen. Everything's (mostly) put away. The large work is done. Now it's a matter of finding out, as we use things, where they're best located. There's already been some movement (in ways reminiscent of 'brownian motion' — yes it's a little random) of cups, plates and suchlike moving to more convenient locations, displacing spices to somewhere else.

(Some of the) cookbooks need to move from where they are. And who needs 15 mugs on a rack? (Not to mention the others — I'm not sure how many — hiding behind three cabinet doors.

Do I really need that Sun Microsystems mug I got back in the day? I mean, Sun Microsystems has gone the way of all flesh. Shouldn't the mug be laid to rest — if only out of respect?

Still progress. Much yet to do as we unpack everything from the move from California. But it was good to look into the room — and see a room.

A Collection of 'Lasts'

Back at the start of this year — or the very end of last year — I noticed I was collecting 'lasts'.

As the time for our move from California approached, and in particular my drive from California to Missouri, I discovered I was making note of 'the last time I'll do this'.

The day I left on the start of a 2,007-mile journey I took a number of last photographs of the lake in Foster City — like the one here. It serves to remind me of the beauty that was there, and remind me to search for the beauty that is here.

In the days before, the weeks before, we had a last dinner at Heidi's Pies, a family restaurant in San Mateo. A place straight out of Americana, a place where you'll be called 'sweetie', no matter how unsweet you might be feeling at the time. Another last, a pizza (well, one each — they're small, honest) at Amici's East Cost Pizza, also in San Mateo. Very thin crust. Freshly made. Good service. A third last, Boudin. Now there's a taste of San Francisco. You won't find sourdough bread quite like that anywhere.

I notice that the 'lasts' I'm recalling are food related. Well, bread broken and shared is a deep-rooted part of human community. 

We'd already had the last celebration with the Emmaus Community. Again bread broken and shared, both in the sacramental meal of the liturgical celebration and afterwards in the shared potluck as we bid farewell to friends we'd come to know over decades.

There are many other 'lasts' I collected: a last visit to the Highlands Resort operated by a husband and wife team we've come to know well, a last visit to an art gallery in Duncan's Mills operated by a husband and wife team of artists, a last visit to San Rafael for me to visit with my good friend.

It was good to take the time to stop, notice, remember. It's a part of conscious living, something with which I have a checkered history.

Now I'm collecting 'firsts'.