[personal] In the Aftermath...

 Thank you, everyone who has asked how I'm doing.

In the days before the election, I tormented myself with worst-case nightmare scenarios. Memories of the shock in 2020, being unable to sleep that night. Even deeper memories of growing up under the cloud of McCarthyism. Now life has created a buffer for me, in small part from anticipating the worst but also just not having the emotional bandwidth. My newly replaced knee is doing really well, but I'm in discomfort most of the time and PT exercises, stretches, icing, and the like eat up a lot of my focus.

To make matters worse, our oldest cat, Shakir, is in serious decline, most likely cancer although we aren't going to put him through expensive, invasive testing. He's 17 and frail. We're doing palliative care, which has perked him up quite a bit, but it's likely temporary. Too soon after losing Gayatri.

And to make matters even more complicated, there's another parole hearing [for the man who raped and murdered my mother] next week. Remote, so I don't have to haul myself to Vacaville. My speech is just about ready. As usual, I plan to decompress by watching the entire Peter Jackson director's cut The Lord of the Rings over the following two days. It strikes me as an appropriate thing to do after the election, as well.

We aren't facing this alone. We have one another, our work, and our dreams. Me, I'll have Gandalf, Aragorn, Arwen, Merry & Pippin, Eowyn, and Sam at my side for a bit.

Fortitude,

Deborah

Where’s Deborah?

You may have noticed that I’ve been posting less frequently, especially my book reviews. Fear not, I have not departed for illiterate climes. I value our community. And I do have things to say about the books I’ve been enjoying. I just have been reading and writing much less.

In mid-May, I experienced a sudden, severe decrease in the visual acuity of my dominant eye. I’ve been to three doctors so far, including a retinal specialist, and they can’t find the cause. The good news is that they’ve been able to rule out the Big Bads, which is reassuring but frustrating. I’ve tried wearing an eye patch, which gives me better vision through my non-dominant eye, but the loss of depth perception drives me crazy. (Who knew how much depth perception matters when reaching for a mouse?) Meanwhile, my time at the computer is limited (ditto piano, unless I’m playing from memory). Eyestrain headaches set in after only a short time. Hence…

Audiobooks to the rescue!

I discovered the delights of recorded books when they came on reel-to-reel and then cassettes. And then CDs. I still have a collection of my favorite novels and classes. Fast forward a number of years to oh joy! I can not only check out physical audiobooks from my local library, I can borrow digital editions, too! I got into borrowing through the discovery of many podcasts featuring stories read aloud (my favorite was “Phoebe Reads A Mystery”). Alas, these were usually one chapter per episode, liberally laced with ads. Not so the library editions (which also pay royalties to the author and narrator through the price the library pays for its copies).

I’ve worked my way through most of Alexander McCall Smith’s books (especially the “Lady Detective Agency” series), Tony Hillerman’s mysteries, and Anne Perry’s Thomas and Charlotte Pitt mysteries.

What have I been listening to recently? Read my most recent audiobook reviews this Friday for the scoop!

[personal] Bragging About My Younger Daughter

My younger daughter, Rose, is finishing up her residency in Family Medicine. She's also a strong advocate for gender and sexual minority patients. And she's just been recognized for her work:

(DEIA - Diversity, Equity, Inclusion, & Access)  

Wildfire Journey Part II

Once we’d gotten settled with the cats and the hotel routine, daily life became a matter of watching the progress of the fire containment and waiting for news about water and power, and when the evacuation order might change to a warning, allowing us to go back. The CalFire damage inspection teams went through the neighborhood, and we cheered when we saw our house on the map, marked green — no fire damage! Our little neck of the woods had the misfortune to lose the tank that supplied us entirely, so a new temporary tank would have to be installed, with temporary piping, on rugged terrain, with smoldering hot spots...and our electricity came through an area that had been badly burned. Water was restored to other areas (to be truthful, just about every other area) first, although at first it wasn’t clear how badly contaminated it might be. About 5 miles of aboveground HDPE pipe melted, creating the possibility of backflow due to depressurization of water contaminated by the products of heated plastic (VOCs). Later testing revealed most if not all of that water was safe, so the Do Not Drink/Do Not Boil orders were eventually lifted, although not for our block. It seemed to be one lumbering, unfolding disaster, with visions of returning home to water safe only for flushing toilets, no power, trees apt to fall over at any time. Looters. Lost pets. Dying wildlife.

Finally the mandatory evacuation order for our street was changed to a warning, and it happened the same day when we decided to go look at our place, regardless. There were road blocks, but further up the highway so we could get in. Each passing mile brought us into more familiar territory. Driving into our little town and seeing ordinary vehicles as well as emergency equipment was a highlight, but not as tear-inducing as pulling into our carport and seeing the gate, pretty much untouched. There were chunks of ash outside, but no burning or other fire damage. The mud room and adjacent office reeked of smoke, although the interior of the house wasn’t too bad. We walked around, seeing “home,” until I wrapped my arms around my daughter, sobbing, “It’s here, it’s okay…” Home is safe.

We gathered up a few more things, then went into the garden. Despite our fears that everything would have died between the high heat, no water, and smoke, some parts were thriving. The squash plants seemed intent on taking over the county. Apples and grapefruits littered the ground. The green beans had mostly produced seed. The tomatoes looked fat and happy, now being inadvertently dry-farmed. The rhubarb was okay, and one unseasonal asparagus spear raised its solitary head. We gathered a basket of edible-sized zucchini, grapefruit, and apples, leaving a supply for the family of scrub jays that lives in our orchard. On the way out of town, we stopped at the volunteer fire department to thank them and offer grapefruit, but they couldn’t risk any ill health effects from the ash and soot, so declined with thanks.

Back at the hotel, we decided that in order to move back in, we needed water and power. There was no possibility of cleaning without these things, and between the smoke odor, the light fall of ash, the ordinary dust of several weeks, and the condition of a refrigerator without power for over two weeks, we couldn’t stay overnight without cleaning.

The next step was meeting with our smoke damage adjuster at the house. We did a walk-through, inspecting and discussing. One of the down sides of the online local community, I found, was a sort of mob effect that magnified the unwillingness of other adjusters to address issues such as toxic ash and environmental testing or additional living expenses and created an adversarial relationship. I found myself getting worked up in anticipation of having to fight for the coverage we had paid for. As it turned out, we and our adjuster achieved a surprising amount of cooperation. They explained their findings, we each asked questions and got clarification. In the end, we felt the settlement offer was fair and would allow us to pay for a professional cleaning if we could not do it ourselves.

Although we’d been prepared to pay for a few extra days at the hotel, power and nonpotable were restored in enough time for us to make several trips to do enough cleaning of the bedrooms and bathrooms that we felt optimistic about moving back on the last day of our paid housing. First came prep, aka cleaning! The bedrooms were by far the least affected by smoke but the places I wanted the cleanest first. I set to work, wiping down surfaces, dusting and vacuuming with our new HEPA filter vacuum cleaner, changing linens, washing floors. Moving from room to room. I was surprised at my sustained willingness to be meticulous and also my endurance. After two exhausting but satisfying sessions, we were ready to move back in.

We walked from room to room, speechless with appreciation for all our treasures that had survived. Much work lay before us — salvaging the refrigerator and freezer, going through the rest of the house, then hiring local professionals to do a deep cleaning that included walls, ceilings, and blinds (windows and the exterior would have to wait for the rains). We watched the cats explore their “new” surroundings, their joy in being in a familiar place.

Since the beginning of the pandemic, it has been the custom in our valley to go outside at 8 pm and howl like wolves for five minutes. On our first night back, our daughter and I did this. We heard only a few, distant howls. We howled back, We’re here! And at every following night, more voices joined in. Another joyful event was hearing our neighbors’ voices on the street, going out to greet them (masked and socially distanced, of course) and celebrate that we all made it. Hey, let’s have a block barbecue on the street once we get clean water again!

Wildfire evacuation has been an ordeal, no question. With climate change, this will increasingly be the new normal. It was at times terrifying, saddening, and yet also exhilarating to see the community flourish using technology. I feel profoundly grateful for how fortunate we are. All people and cats are safe, and we have a home to come back to. We have experienced amazing kindness and have done our best to extend it to others.

Wildfire Journey Part I

First came thunder and dry lightning. Such storms are rare in my area, due to the configuration of the mountains, but this one was extraordinary by any standards. The first storms hit early on August 16, with not dozens but thousands of lightning strikes (estimated 12,000 over 72-96 hours).

We had watched the lightning for a few hours, flash after blinding flash, and commented that in his last years, our old German Shepherd Dog had become fearful of loud sounds like thunder and fireworks (we dealt with this by immediately getting out his all-time favorite toy and playing with him). Even though we knew of the danger of fires, somehow it didn’t connect. It should have. Over 500 wildfires sprang up in the next few hours, fanned by hot, dry winds. Soon we saw news stories of multiple fires in our county, Santa Cruz, and neighboring San Mateo, that were to merge into the #CZUAugustLightningComplex fire.

The next day, the air was noticeably smokey, but we’d had smoky air before, from the Camp fire a couple of years ago, and others in Northern California. We kept an eye on the news but otherwise went about our business, mostly staying indoors. But as August 18 went on, the smoke thickened and the extent of the fire at Butano Park, northwest of us, expanded with terrifying rapidity, our mood went from watchful to alarmed. About dinner time, the smoke was as thick as San Francisco fog.

“We should prepare to get out of here,” I told my family. “Just in case.” For months now, I’d been gathering materials on disaster preparedness, and had checklists and evacuation route maps in a folder on the kitchen counter. Now I got out those lists.

We each went about packing up suitcases, getting cat carriers ready, piling up our binder of important documents and insurance policies, getting out boxes of family photos. CPAPs, check. Jewelry, check. Prescription meds, check. And so forth.

The smoke got worse. The fire got closer. Big Basin State Park, that jewel of old growth coastal redwoods, was in flames.

“We’re leaving,” I said, and called my dear friend and fellow writer in the East Bay.

“Of course you can stay with us,” she said.

“But first,” I told my family, “we will have a good dinner.” As I’d planned, fajitas with squash from our garden. The hot, flavorful food strengthened us for what was to come.

We finished dinner, I loaded the dishwasher and set it to run, and then we loaded up the cars, locked the house, and drove off. As it was, our grown daughter and the cats had an offer of refuge south of Santa Cruz, so after some discussion, we decided to split the family. We stepped out of the house into a sea of billowing smoke.

The road into our little town was already filling up with outbound traffic. At the one and only

stop sign in town, in front of the volunteer fire department, sheriffs were directing traffic south toward Santa Cruz. “Go, go, go!” the officer in the middle of the intersection shouted, waving cars through. I’d planned on going left, then along a twisty mountain road I knew well to the nearest highway, but followed the course of least trouble for everyone. It meant a somewhat longer drive for me to detour south, then east, then back north, but in the interest of keeping outgoing traffic flowing smoothly and not making more work for the folks who were trying to get us all out safely, I took it.

Shortly thereafter, while I was on the road, we all received reverse-911 texts of the mandatory evacuation orders.

My friends had set up a tent for us in the back yard, which was the best impromptu solution to social distancing they could come up with. Gratefully we settled down to as much sleep as we could grab. The following morning, we had a discussion about forming a quarantine pod, taking into account our risk tolerance and exposure. We all felt comfortable with this, since it was already clear my family wouldn’t be going back home in a few days. The fires were already roaring down the coast and south along Highway 236 toward our neighborhood.

The next few days passed by in a blur of being obsessively glued to social media, watching the fire’s hourly progress, connecting online with neighbors, remembering all the things we forgot to pack (the power supply to my CPAP), envisioning all the things we didn’t or couldn’t take with us (piano, artwork, 5,000+ volume library) burned to ashes, and so forth. The blaze crept closer and closer to our street. We all had difficulty sleeping and eating.

We’d see rumors that the fire crews had abandoned everything west of Highway 9 at our town, and that was where they’d draw the line. These proved to be just that — rumors — although the crews were stretched critically thin. It made horrific sense that they would throw all their meager resources into defending the town, for if that were lost the fire could go roaring south, consuming one small community after another toward the nearest small city. Neighbors rose to the occasion. Locals with fire-fighting experience set up a water station near our block, watchful for embers descending from the ridge. Neighbors formed a private Facebook DM group, exchanging snippets of real news. One was the spouse of a fire-fighter and was able to convey news. Another was a reporter who ventured behind the fire perimeter zone to check out houses.

Every night I went to sleep, expecting to find out the next morning that our house and garden and orchard were gone. And day by day, they were still there. And when I first saw the footage of our fence and carport, still intact in the swirling smoke, I burst into tears.

How our hosts put up with us, I don’t know. Despite their own problems, they were unfailingly kind, gracious, and welcoming. Between our friends and our neighbors, I got to see the best in human nature.

Then came predictions of another lightning storm, with more hot, dry winds. Fire fighters had begun to arrive from other parts of the state, from other states, and even from Australia (I learned later that this is a regular thing as our fire seasons are opposite). Inmate fire crews joined them (and since have gained the right to apply for formal fire fighter training.) The rugged terrain and heavy fuel loads combined with terrible heat to add to their burden.

We finally, finally got a break. The storm dissipated with no new lightning to spark more fires. The winds stilled. The heat wave broke. The smoke thinned enough to make air support (helicopters dumping loads of water) feasible. Our crews kept working at full pace, trying to make the most of the more favorable conditions. We even got a little rain, not enough to make any difference but enough to give us all hope. The containment went from 0% to 5 % and more.

After most of a week with our friends, we realized that we weren’t going home any time soon. I called our homeowners insurance to ask about temporary housing; because of the mandatory evacuation, this time fell under “prohibited use” and our adjuster asked where we’d like to be and what our requirements were. Unlike some others, who’d ended up in shelters or motels, we were able to say, “Three adults, four cats, separate bedrooms, one suite.” Where? the adjuster asked. I expected that all the nicer hotels near us would already be filled. My friend recommended a long-stay hotel only a few minutes drive from her place. People she’d known had stayed there and found it comfortable. Our temporary housing adjuster set us up in a suite that met our needs, plus hot “continental” breakfasts that hotels often offer now. Our daughter and the cats joined us, and we set about laying down newspaper under the litter boxes, placing scratching posts in strategic locations, and so forth. I was surprised at how quickly the cats adapted to their new surroundings, and also — although I shouldn’t have been — how much comfort they brought us.

Most of my hotel experience over the last few decades has been traveling to and from or at conventions. The glamor of staying in a new place, with those little bottles of shampoo and lotion in brands I’d never tried, not to mention eating in a restaurant, which I rarely do, had long since worn off. Now the place felt like a refuge, not just due to the relief from the smoke and having bedrooms with separate baths and a communal kitchen, dining, and living area, but because the staff soon got to know our story. True, they were doing their jobs in providing extra amenities (like detergent for the dishwasher or lending us the vacuum so we could clean around the litter boxes without having to get the cats back in their carriers) or just in passing. The wildfires touched everyone and in so many cases brought out the best in people.

#CZUAugustLightningComplex Fires -- My Neighborhood

 Dear friends, This will give you an idea of the area I live in and why I love it so much. It was, for me, a joyous and healing place. The video does not show my street, but one very similar (and one I often walk along). There are a few shots of fire damage but most of that was to nearby areas. Enjoy!

The Saga of the Prius

Once upon a time, O Reader, hybrid cars were new and wonderful, the best of both worlds, a stylish way to reduce our dependence on foreign petroleum and thereby prevent wars and save the planet. If there were issues with the manufacture and disposal of the hybrid batteries, or the way the extra battery weight chewed up tires and suspension systems, no one got very excited. The cars got in the range of 50 miles per gallon and had these nifty dashboard screens that allowed you to track your mileage.

The most immediate drawback was how expensive they were, even the bare-bones models. I accepted that I’d never be able to afford one. And sighed. And kept driving my battered old Mazda Protégé. But fate had other ideas. A friend and her partner needed to liquidate various assets in order to study with their guru in India for a year, so I bought her year-old red Prius, a 2004. It came loaded with all kinds of extras I never would have selected for myself, like a sound system that played both CDs and cassette tapes, a GPS, and Bluetooth. I plastered the back bumper with bumper stickers, thereby making it mine.

Thus began a long and (mostly) happy adventure. I played a lot of music in that car. The CD changer held 6 disks, which turned out to be exactly right for listening to the extended version of the music to all 3 The Hobbit movies, which contributed in a major way to my sanity during the last Presidential election and its aftermath. The GPS helped me get un-lost countless times, especially after I figured out the reason it kept taking me the looooong scenic route was that the “Allow Freeways” option was off. I never used the Bluetooth.

My relationship with the exterior of the car was less harmonious. Suffice it to say that if you so much as tapped the bumper covers, they dented. I left the dent in the hood made by a deer that jumped out in front of me but didn’t kill me, as a reminder. But the years and miles rolled by, with roads trips to college reunions, family vacations, and so forth. When my younger daughter asked to borrow it for a series of interviews for residencies in family medicine, I handed over the keys.

A few days later, I got a message from her, saying that a warning light of the terrifying variety had appeared, the car was parked in a safe place nearby, but that she couldn’t get it started. After conferring with our friendly local walking-distance mechanic, my husband and I made our way to the poor Prius, AAA card in hand. Exploiting our special relationship, I was able to start it and drive it to the nearest hybrid specialist.

The news was not good. The hybrid battery, which was now 13 years old and which we expected to fail any time, was fine. The culprit was most likely the computer, which was located behind the dashboard, which would take YikesThatManyDollars to just open up and look at, and YikesEvenMoreDollars to repair if indeed that was the problem. And then we’d still be facing the demise of the hybrid battery and the pressing need for new front tires before the winter’s storms.

We took a deep breath and called the folks who cart your car away for charity. Here I am at the garage, saying goodbye.

Now we were down to my husband’s van, a 2002 Mazda MPV that has carted dogs in their crates, loads of garden tools, plants, lumber, lots of people on its 7 seats, and such like over the years. The door locks are cranky, it does have a functioning radio and single-CD player, and it gets less than 20 mpg. Fortunately, we don’t drive it a lot, but now we would be putting more miles on it. I embarked upon a courtship phase by buying a bunch of Andrea Boccelli CDs at the local thrift store and playing them to woo the van. The van purred at me in response.

I called my daughter to let her know the outcome with the Prius. Without missing a beat, she said, “Mom, remember the car you bought for me [when I started San Jose State]? I was going to sell it in May [when I graduate from medical school in CT]. I’ll drive it home and give it to you.” She went on to say it wasn’t in perfect condition but the engine had always run well. I wasn’t listening too carefully at that point. The universe in the form of my loving, generous daughter was giving us a car.

Interestingly, it’s one thing for us to have bought the car, a Toyota Corolla (great gas mileage, yay!) for her. I expected to do stuff like that as a parent, especially when it was important to enable her to commute “over the hill” and finish her four-year degree. I feel overwhelmed with gratitude, though, when the generosity goes the other way. Guess I’d better start getting used to it.

I wonder what kind of music the Corolla likes?

[personal] Fire Update

Hello everyone -- sorry to be absent yesterday. We lost DSL/phone/internet due to the Bear Fire. Back online now. The fire's about 6 miles from us, but not moving in this direction, so no evacuation order for this neighborhood. It's incredibly smokey, though, in addition to what blew south from the Santa Rosa fires. At last count 6 firefighters have been injured and a bunch of homes destroyed. You can see from the image how rugged the terrain is. They're guessing the total acreage will be around 500. On the plus side, rain is forecast for tomorrow.

Monday Wisdom From Harriet Beecher Stowe

When you get into a tight place and everything goes against you...never give up then, for that is just the place and time that the tide will turn.

Wishing you fortitude for whatever you are struggling with this week.

Monday Wisdom From Louisa May Alcott

I am not afraid of storms for I am learning how to sail my ship.

Seek resilience and resourcefulness, not insulation.

Monday Wisdom from Helen Keller

Although the world is full of suffering, it is also full of the overcoming of it.


Sometimes all a suffering person needs from me is my faith that they can overcome their sorrows. This does not mean that I an absolved of responsibility to act when I should, but it does not mean I must do for others what they can grow by doing for themselves. I am not entitled to deprive someone I love of the experience of their own resourcefulness.

Monday Wisdom From Eleanor Roosevelt

The giving of love is an education in itself.


I have long believed that what is wrong with the world is not too much love but too little. Therefore, let us be bold in our loving, boundlessly generous with our hearts. 

Monday Wisdom From George Bernard Shaw

Better to keep yourself clean and bright; you are the window through which you must see the world.


And better to admit our errors and make amends when we can, and be our truest, most honest, most courageous selves!

Monday Wisdom From Mark Twain

To get the full value of a joy, you must have somebody to divide it with.


Share something wonderful with someone you love today.

Monday Wisdom From Ralph Waldo Emerson

When friendships are real, they are not glass threads of frost work, but the solidest things we can know.


Thank you, my wonderful friends, for carrying me through times so dark I could not stand, let alone walk.

New Year's Eve Wishes

2015 is winding down -- how did that happen? It feels as if it had just gotten some momentum. It's been a year of changes for my family, as for many others. Not as rotten a year as 2013 in terms of my personal losses, but not my favorite year, either. Still, there were bright spots and occasions for joy and hope. It's a little like eating horseradish and charoseth at Pesach, the bitter with the sweet.

May we strive together to create a world of peace and justice for everyone. And may we and our loved ones find much to celebrate in the coming year, remembering to be gentle with ourselves and tender with others, most particularly those already burdened with sorrow.

B'shalom, Deborah

[personal] Goals, Resolutions, Wishes, 2016 version

This blog post is from a few years ago, but it's worth repeating. Be kind to yourselves and your dreams.

I'm not big on resolutions, New Year's or otherwise. More often than not, all they do is set me up to fail, or put me in competition with others, and who needs that? However, I do see a great deal of value in taking some time to clarify where I'm going in my life, if it's where I want to be going, and what I'd like to see different.

Years (as in, decades) ago, a friend suggested making a list of goals instead of resolutions, and to break them down into 1-year, 5-year, 10-year, and lifetime goals. I did that for quite a while, and I still have the notebook I kept them in. It's fascinating to look back at what I thought I wanted, 30 years ago -- what I have achieved, what I no longer want, and what is no longer possible.

Along the way, I realized that some of these things were within my power to achieve, but others were not. I might long for them, but I could not bring them about, or not entirely by my own efforts. For instance, finishing a novel or studying Hebrew are things I can choose to do, but my children being happy, however much I might want to see that come about, is not something I myself can create. These things are wishes, not goals. Of course, many things are both. On my list is to write a work of enduring value -- I can write the best stories that are in me, but how they are received and how they endure the test of time is another matter entirely. I have no say over that.

The Inevitable Consequence of Rain

Rain and more rain. This is good.

Power has gone out. This is predictable. (I live in a forested, mountainous region.)

Backup generator has failed to go on. This is catastrophe.

Wait! My Chromebook battery is all charged so I can write! I can play my piano! I can read a book! I can play with the dog!

(I can have a cold breakfast or go get the Sterno from the emergency supplies...)

Monday Joy

It's raining. This is a good thing. I have yoga class today with a teacher I like very much. This is an even better thing.

What's new and wonderful in your world?

Cataract Journey 1: Diagnosis

For some years now, maybe a decade, I’ve complained about my “old eyes.” I’ve never had good vision without corrective lenses. I think I started wearing glasses in 3^rd grade. I remember getting contact lenses in 1960. They were hard lenses, of course, and required a long period of getting used to, all the while putting up with light sensitivity and scratchy, red eyes. They did, however, get me out of having to play softball – which I was so bad at, it was embarrassing – in high school; the first windy day blew so much dust into my eyes, the school let me switch to swimming. For some reason, maybe the steepness of my corneas, the lenses stayed put in water. As a result, I learned to swim.

For a long time, hard (“rigid gas-permeable”) lenses were a great solution for me. I don’t have issues about handling my eyes, and best of all, they gave me great correction. My brain thought the world had sharp edges. And so it went for many years.

Eventually I ran into one situation or another where I needed glasses. For some strange reason, hospitals want you to take your contacts out. So I got them, even though years would go by without using them. And then, of course, I’d need a different prescription. I got a pair just for reading in bed, part of my night time ritual.

Fast forward a number of decades. Dry, scratchy eyes became more of a problem, especially when working at the computer, and often it seemed as if the lenses couldn’t quite settle (and give me good correction), no matter how many times I blinked. I’d take them out and clean them, and sometimes that would help. Driving at night became more tiring. I could no longer see the night sky clearly, and I was pretty sure I’d been able to, once upon a time.