Announcements, announcements, an-now-ounce-ments!
What a horrible death to die, what a horrible death to die,
What a horrible death, to be talked to death,
What a horrible death to die.
Announcements, announcements, an-now-ounce-ments!
(Boy Scout Campfire Song)
I made some changes to my Wordpress settings which should make it easier to leave comments.
Have I mentioned recently how much I enjoy Sarah Palin? I know it’s been at least 3 weeks since I’ve done so, because I was relegated to the sad side of the digital divide when I was sans computer. Palin, the Fairy Godmother for uninspired bloggers, cooked up a trifecta of events just as I got back online. She’s so generous!
Event Number 1; property tax evasion. The Palins own property along Safari Lake in Alaska. The property is assessed as unimproved. There are in fact two house-sized “cabins” on the property as well as several outbuildings for snowmobiles—oh, excuse me, snow machines—on the property and have been for three or four years, which the Palins never reported to the real property assessor. Most politicians who get into tax trouble –and it’s a lot of them, have you noticed?—say, “Oh, gosh, I made a mistake. Please tell me what I owe and I’ll write the check now.” Not the Palins! Their contention; it’s the assessor’s job to reassess the property and not their responsibility to report any changes.
Frankly, while this makes Palin look stamp-her-foot childish and silly again, it doesn’t look like a very big scandal. Apparently, failing to report improvements until you are caught is pretty standard practice. (I did wonder why the request for a permit doesn’t flag something at the assessor’s office, but. . .)
So graded on technical merit, entertainment value and seriousness; this is about a four on a one-to-ten scale for me.
Event Number 2: Palin mocks President’s use of teleprompters while reading notes off her hand. This was at the Grand Ole Opry Tea Party event. Palin thinks that use of teleprompters somehow proves something bad about Obama (like, that he was born in Kenya? I don’t know). She would never do anything as false and insincere as use one. She reads off paper. (I like paper, so I’m with her on this one.) When she steps away from the podium to take q&a from the audiences, she uses her hand. Not only did she have notes written on her hand, she had one of them lined out! This is hilarious! Do you edit the notes you write on your hand? I’m beginning to see why Palin didn’t do well at her college in Hawaii. In that high humidity, your notes melt.
Grade: Well, in terms of seriousness, this is a zero, only because I can’t go into negative numbers, but for technical merit—extra points for the line editing—she gets a 6, and for entertainment it’s a 9. That averages to a 7.5.
Event Number 3; husband was given access to all kinds of private and confidential materials, made policy decisions and directed daily governance operations. 3,000 e-mails finally released to the media from a Freedom of Information Act request show Todd, the “shadow governor” getting confidential information about procurement processes, weighing in, in writing, about judge appointments, and directing Palin’s staff about how to handle media questions.
Everyone thought that Palin’s husband played a very big role in governing. For me, that should have been a given. Palin is open about belonging to a religious sect that requires men to lead and women to follow. If the voters in Alaska didn’t pick that up, it’s kind of their problem. It’s not merely that he directed her opinions. It’s the access he had.
Grade: This is a zero for entertainment. In fact, it’s damn scary. For technical merit, though, it’s a solid 10, merely for the governor’s office managing to obstruct a FOIA request for 16 months. Geez, I get embarrassed when I have to ask for a month on a Public Records Act request. I’m inspired now. Can I beat 16? This behavior displays arrogant, out-of-control government at its best, and Palin gets the credit because she trained these obstructionist types.
For seriousness, this is a 10. I have to agree with Republican watchdog Andree McLeod on this one. Why is it such a big deal? It’s a big deal because Todd Palin was a private citizen. Palin’s spokeperson described him as an “unpaid consultant,” and that would probably be fine, if he signed a confidentiality agreement, went through ethics training and also signed a no-conflict-of-interest document. Todd Palin apparently did none of that. It’s no different than the Governor bringing in her sister-in-law or old college room-mate and letting them read confidential information about a contract—a contract the old-college room-mate’s company is bidding on, for instance. McLeod’s question is simple, especially since she has been stalled on repeated requests to have e-mails made public—if you’ll do it for one private citizen, why not all?
Palin supporters try to compare this to Hilary Clinton being put in charge of health care in the 1990s. In fact, Clinton’s assignment was very public, as were her qualifications. Clinton had an assignment that was described and prescribed, and she had the MQs for it. Perhaps Palin announced that the “first dude” would be her advisor on judgeships, questions about government involvement in public-private businesses such as the Matanuska Maid Dairy, and would also provide confidential documents from his employer, British Petroleum, to the governor’s office. Maybe she did, but from the reaction of people, if she did, nobody remembers it. In a state where relations between elected government and energy companies are, well, delicate, the idea of a paid BP employee also being an “unpaid consultant” to the highest office in the state might make some people uncomfortable. In fact, it might make BP uncomfortable, if they didn’t know their documents were being leaked.
A solid 10. This story will probably get the least amount of play unless e-mails surface that reference Troopergate. Even though it is the most serious, it is abstract, and doesn’t play to a visual audience the way notes on your hand does. This story requires people to think about government, its role and the ethics that should bind its actions. Who wants to do that? Look, she wrote on her hand!
Anyway, with all that said and done, I’m grateful. Palin’s back with a bang. Thanks Sarah. On your behalf I’m going to go make a political donation to some liberal group, right now. I think it will be that hotbed of socialist activism, the League of Women Voters.
(I didn’t put in all the links. You can find the stories and the e-mails on MSNBC and also at themudflats.net).
The town of Talmage in Mendocino County has a population of less than 1200. The mean average income is $35,000/year. The town is mostly white, but 16% Asian, which seems surprising in coastal northern California—surprising until you realize that most of Talmage is the City of Ten Thousand Buddhas.
Who knew?
The Dharma Realm Buddhist Association opened its northern California monastery and school in Talmage in 1976. The property had been used for a mental institution, but it was closed in the late 1960s by then-governor Ronald Reagan who thought institutions cost too much taxpayer money, and those people would be better served, as he called it, “in the community,” or, as the rest of us called it, on the streets. This left institutional buildings and grounds that the DRBA was probably able to pick up cheap.
My friend Kathleen and I drove through the Mountain Gate onto the grounds, following the signs to the Administration building. The monastery welcomes visitors but everyone needs to check in, and there are rules that must be followed. Beyond the green-and-orange multi-tiered gate that really does look like a mountain, the green grass and black, leafless oak trees contrasted with the pale orange buildings. A male peacock strolled across the pavement in front of us, dragging his shimmering multi-eyed tail like a train. Another followed, and another, and then a clutch of short-tailed peahens. There are probably about forty peacocks on the property. Over the roofs of some of the lower buildings I could see the head of an enormous Buddha statue.
The inside of the Administration Building is institutional, except for a large marble Quan Yin by the door. A slight, soft-spoken, pleasant man at the counter welcomed us and gave us a map. He explained that the Hall of Buddhas, the vegetarian restaurant, organic garden and Japanese-styled Koi pond were open to the public, and marked off the areas that were not open to the public because the monastery and the schools are gender restricted. The Hall of Buddhas, he said, maybe really did have 10,000. He didn’t seem overly concerned about whether that figure was exact. It’s just the name of the place. He told us a story about the founder, Hsuan Hua, coming from China, to be told there was no water on the property. This monk had a gift for finding water, so he hired a well-digging company and walked around the property, with them trailing behind him. Finally he pointed to a spot and said, “Dig.” The well drillers dug for a while, down deep, and didn’t find water. When they told the monk this, he merely pointed and said again, “Dig.” They did, very deep indeed, and found water—lots of water.
The founder, Hsuan Hua, apparently carved many of the Buddha statues that are in the Hall of Buddha, where we were on our way next.
It was about four pm on a cool, cloudy January day, and quiet except for the eerie, imperative calls of the peacocks. Now and then we would see a person, bundled in dark colors, wearing a head-covering regardless of gender, walking across the grounds. We started toward the hall but were immediately distracted by the beautiful, fearless peacocks and had to take several pictures of them. I’m sure there’s some Buddhist message here about being seduced by the temporal beauty of the world and all. Anyway, after a few minutes we made our way to the old gymnasium, which holds the Buddhas and scores of orange kneeling pillows for their services. On each side of the central door is a mosaic of the Buddhist Lord Protector, one in his angelic aspect and one in his warrior aspect. The roof of the porte cochere holds a large statue of the Buddha, and on the pavement before the entrance sits a large cylinder hung with bells. I forgot to ask what it was for. It looks like wrought iron but might have black painted ceramic, and was hollow inside, with a step-ladder rested against it. I don’t know if they ring the bells or burn incense or something in its interior.
Inside is a large gold-leaf statue of their founder, flanked by the Lord Protector in two aspects; fierce warrior-red and tranquil, angelic gold. We stepped inside, into a huge room. The walls are lined with rectangular shelved niches and each one holds a Buddha. Niches have been built into the two beams that run the length of the ceiling, and they hold smaller statues. At the back of this space stand seven bronze statues in various aspects of the Buddha including four Quan Yin figures. At the front, spot-lit, a large gold-colored thousand-armed Buddha commands the eye. It is surrounded with life-size Buddha figures and then smaller figures on the railing. On the floor level rest a line a musical instruments, mostly percussive, and two massive red-painted drums hang from the ceiling, as well as a couple of large bells. Kathleen said, of one, whose rope bell pull was within easy reach of our fingers, “I really want to ring that bell.” I quickly pretended that I didn’t know her. (She didn’t ring the bell.)
People can buy a statuette and bless it in the name or on behalf of a person, and that person will receive some of the benefits of the daily chanting of the mantras and sutras for one year. These plastic Buddhas are stacked in conical stands and there are three of them in the hall. This confuses me, since it seems like you are purchasing blessings, just like in those good old Christian churches. Maybe I don’t understand Buddhism very well.
We were both struck, actually, with how Catholic it felt. Since what I loved most about Catholicism, what almost seduces me back to the church, is the pageantry, this was almost like a homecoming; incense, candles, colored lights, and glorious statues. The other thing I love about Catholicism is its miracles, and a water-spotting monk probably qualifies as a miracle.
The site hosts a school (pre-school through middle school), boys and girls, but in separate facilities. Our host said that there were about 30 residential (boarding school) boys and perhaps about 50 girls. There were also some local day students. He says they do well academically, since they are not “distracted by the other gender” and because internet use is strictly restricted to schoolwork use. There are also adult monks and nuns. They offer retreats and volunteer days, such as Farm Day, and other events. The ten-acre vineyard, the garden and the walnut grove all help provide for the monastery, as well as school tuition and those plastic Buddha figures.
We asked about the peacocks and the garden. He said, “I don’t know about peacocks in other places, but ours are vegetarian.” And yes, they do eat the garden. He said, “They have a right to eat too,” which instantly illustrated to me one way in which Buddhism is different from western thought. He said that the Chinese people who come to this Buddhist sect are seeking compassion while Westerners are looking for a different perspective.
The City did give a different perspective, and it was a surprise. It is a beautiful, peaceful place to stop, and probably quieter on a weekend. Cell phones are discouraged, and they request that people dress modestly.
“Thank you. Thank you very much. Please be seated.
Thank you so much. Heads of state, Cabinet members, my outstanding Vice President, members of Congress, religious leaders, distinguished guests, Admiral Mullen — it’s good to see all of you. Let me begin by acknowledging the co-chairs of this breakfast, Senators Isakson and Klobuchar, who embody the sense of fellowship at the heart of this gathering. They’re two of my favorite senators. Let me also acknowledge the director of my faith-based office, Joshua DuBois, who is here. Where’s Joshua? He’s out there somewhere. He’s doing great work. (Applause.)
I want to commend Secretary Hillary Clinton on her outstanding remarks, and her outstanding leadership at the State Department. She’s doing good every day. (Applause.) I’m especially pleased to see my dear friend, Prime Minister Zapatero, and I want him to relay America’s greetings to the people of Spain. And Johnny, you are right, I’m deeply blessed, and I thank God every day for being married to Michelle Obama. (Applause.)
I’m privileged to join you once again, as my predecessors have for over half a century. Like them, I come here to speak about the ways my faith informs who I am — as a President, and as a person. But I’m also here for the same reason that all of you are, for we all share a recognition — one as old as time — that a willingness to believe, an openness to grace, a commitment to prayer can bring sustenance to our lives.
There is, of course, a need for prayer even in times of joy and peace and prosperity. Perhaps especially in such times prayer is needed — to guard against pride and to guard against complacency. But rightly or wrongly, most of us are inclined to seek out the divine not in the moment when the Lord makes His face shine upon us, but in moments when God’s grace can seem farthest away.
Last month, God’s grace, God’s mercy, seemed far away from our neighbors in Haiti. And yet I believe that grace was not absent in the midst of tragedy. It was heard in prayers and hymns that broke the silence of an earthquake’s wake. It was witnessed among parishioners of churches that stood no more, a roadside congregation, holding bibles in their laps. It was felt in the presence of relief workers and medics; translators; servicemen and women, bringing water and food and aid to the injured.
One such translator was an American of Haitian descent, representative of the extraordinary work that our men and women in uniform do all around the world — Navy Corpsman Christian [sic] Brossard. And lying on a gurney aboard the USNS Comfort, a woman asked Christopher: “Where do you come from? What country? After my operation,” she said, “I will pray for that country.” And in Creole, Corpsman Brossard responded, “Etazini.” The United States of America.
God’s grace, and the compassion and decency of the American people is expressed through the men and women like Corpsman Brossard. It’s expressed through the efforts of our Armed Forces, through the efforts of our entire government, through similar efforts from Spain and other countries around the world. It’s also, as Secretary Clinton said, expressed through multiple faith-based efforts. By evangelicals at World Relief. By the American Jewish World Service. By Hindu temples, and mainline Protestants, Catholic Relief Services, African American churches, the United Sikhs. By Americans of every faith, and no faith, uniting around a common purpose, a higher purpose.
It’s inspiring. This is what we do, as Americans, in times of trouble. We unite, recognizing that such crises call on all of us to act, recognizing that there but for the grace of God go I, recognizing that life’s most sacred responsibility — one affirmed, as Hillary said, by all of the world’s great religions — is to sacrifice something of ourselves for a person in need.
Sadly, though, that spirit is too often absent when tackling the long-term, but no less profound issues facing our country and the world. Too often, that spirit is missing without the spectacular tragedy, the 9/11 or the Katrina, the earthquake or the tsunami, that can shake us out of complacency. We become numb to the day-to-day crises, the slow-moving tragedies of children without food and men without shelter and families without health care. We become absorbed with our abstract arguments, our ideological disputes, our contests for power. And in this Tower of Babel, we lose the sound of God’s voice.
Now, for those of us here in Washington, let’s acknowledge that democracy has always been messy. Let’s not be overly nostalgic. (Laughter.) Divisions are hardly new in this country. Arguments about the proper role of government, the relationship between liberty and equality, our obligations to our fellow citizens — these things have been with us since our founding. And I’m profoundly mindful that a loyal opposition, a vigorous back and forth, a skepticism of power, all of that is what makes our democracy work.
And we’ve seen actually some improvement in some circumstances. We haven’t seen any canings on the floor of the Senate any time recently. (Laughter.) So we shouldn’t over-romanticize the past. But there is a sense that something is different now; that something is broken; that those of us in Washington are not serving the people as well as we should. At times, it seems like we’re unable to listen to one another; to have at once a serious and civil debate. And this erosion of civility in the public square sows division and distrust among our citizens. It poisons the well of public opinion. It leaves each side little room to negotiate with the other. It makes politics an all-or-nothing sport, where one side is either always right or always wrong when, in reality, neither side has a monopoly on truth. And then we lose sight of the children without food and the men without shelter and the families without health care.
Empowered by faith, consistently, prayerfully, we need to find our way back to civility. That begins with stepping out of our comfort zones in an effort to bridge divisions. We see that in many conservative pastors who are helping lead the way to fix our broken immigration system. It’s not what would be expected from them, and yet they recognize, in those immigrant families, the face of God. We see that in the evangelical leaders who are rallying their congregations to protect our planet. We see it in the increasing recognition among progressives that government can’t solve all of our problems, and that talking about values like responsible fatherhood and healthy marriage are integral to any anti-poverty agenda. Stretching out of our dogmas, our prescribed roles along the political spectrum, that can help us regain a sense of civility.
Civility also requires relearning how to disagree without being disagreeable; understanding, as President [Kennedy] said, that “civility is not a sign of weakness.” Now, I am the first to confess I am not always right. Michelle will testify to that. (Laughter.) But surely you can question my policies without questioning my faith, or, for that matter, my citizenship. (Laughter and applause.)
Challenging each other’s ideas can renew our democracy. But when we challenge each other’s motives, it becomes harder to see what we hold in common. We forget that we share at some deep level the same dreams — even when we don’t share the same plans on how to fulfill them.
We may disagree about the best way to reform our health care system, but surely we can agree that no one ought to go broke when they get sick in the richest nation on Earth. We can take different approaches to ending inequality, but surely we can agree on the need to lift our children out of ignorance; to lift our neighbors from poverty. We may disagree about gay marriage, but surely we can agree that it is unconscionable to target gays and lesbians for who they are — whether it’s here in the United States or, as Hillary mentioned, more extremely in odious laws that are being proposed most recently in Uganda.
Surely we can agree to find common ground when possible, parting ways when necessary. But in doing so, let us be guided by our faith, and by prayer. For while prayer can buck us up when we are down, keep us calm in a storm; while prayer can stiffen our spines to surmount an obstacle — and I assure you I’m praying a lot these days — (laughter) — prayer can also do something else. It can touch our hearts with humility. It can fill us with a spirit of brotherhood. It can remind us that each of us are children of a awesome and loving God.
Through faith, but not through faith alone, we can unite people to serve the common good. And that’s why my Office of Faith-Based and Neighborhood Partnerships has been working so hard since I announced it here last year. We’ve slashed red tape and built effective partnerships on a range of uses, from promoting fatherhood here at home to spearheading interfaith cooperation abroad. And through that office we’ve turned the faith-based initiative around to find common ground among people of all beliefs, allowing them to make an impact in a way that’s civil and respectful of difference and focused on what matters most.
It is this spirit of civility that we are called to take up when we leave here today. That’s what I’m praying for. I know in difficult times like these — when people are frustrated, when pundits start shouting and politicians start calling each other names — it can seem like a return to civility is not possible, like the very idea is a relic of some bygone era. The word itself seems quaint — civility.
But let us remember those who came before; those who believed in the brotherhood of man even when such a faith was tested. Remember Dr. Martin Luther King. Not long after an explosion ripped through his front porch, his wife and infant daughter inside, he rose to that pulpit in Montgomery and said, “Love is the only force capable of transforming an enemy into a friend.”
In the eyes of those who denied his humanity, he saw the face of God.
Remember Abraham Lincoln. On the eve of the Civil War, with states seceding and forces gathering, with a nation divided half slave and half free, he rose to deliver his first Inaugural and said, “We are not enemies, but friends… Though passion may have strained, it must not break our bonds of affection.”
Even in the eyes of confederate soldiers, he saw the face of God.
Remember William Wilberforce, whose Christian faith led him to seek slavery’s abolition in Britain; he was vilified, derided, attacked; but he called for “lessening prejudices [and] conciliating good-will, and thereby making way for the less obstructed progress of truth.”
In the eyes of those who sought to silence a nation’s conscience, he saw the face of God.
Yes, there are crimes of conscience that call us to action. Yes, there are causes that move our hearts and offenses that stir our souls. But progress doesn’t come when we demonize opponents. It’s not born in righteous spite. Progress comes when we open our hearts, when we extend our hands, when we recognize our common humanity. Progress comes when we look into the eyes of another and see the face of God. That we might do so — that we will do so all the time, not just some of the time — is my fervent prayer for our nation and the world.
Thank you, God bless you, and God bless the United States of America.” (Applause.)
President Obama, National Prayer Breakfast,
February 3, 2010
“It is now no more that toleration is spoken of, as if it was the indulgence of one class of people, that another enjoyed the exercise of their inherent national gifts. For happily the Government of the United States, which gives to bigotry no sanction, to persecution no assistance, requires only that they who live under its protection should demean [behave] themselves as good citizens, in giving it on all occasions their effectual support.”
George Washington, to the Touro Synagogue, in Rhode Island, 1790. Yes, you read that right; Synagogue.
Thanks to Sarah Vowell and The Wordy Shipmates.
Ray LaHood sounds gleeful in his whitehouse.gov blog posting about high-speed rail. It is a pretty exciting project. I like trains. I don’t really know why they have to be high-speed except that they are commuter runs, meant, in many areas, to rival air flights. Does he really say that the LA to San Francisco run would only take 2 ½ hours? Wow.
Robert B Parker, creator of Boston sleuth Spenser, PI Sunny Randall and small-town sheriff Jesse Stone, passed away on 1/18/10. He was found dead at his desk where he had been writing, which seems like how he would have wanted it.
His other series were fun, and Appaloosa and its sequels interesting, but I grew up with Spenser.
I started reading the Spenser novels in the late 1970’s. Spenser was a hunky, clear-eyed rebel, a manly man without a lot to prove, and a streak of purposeful silliness. In one book, he tries to get confidential information from a welfare worker. The female worker correctly refuses. He asks her if she’ll get it for him if he does a one-armed push-up. She hesitates, so he drops to the floor and does a one-armed push-up. She rolls her eyes, but gives him the scoop. Unafraid to be silly in the cause of righteousness, that was Spenser.
In the late seventies, I thought I was a clear-eyed rebel. Things seemed simple. Spenser stood against some things, and for some things. His connection with Hawk, the African-American mercenary, epitomized a kind of cool, the same kind of cool, strangely, that Gene Wilder and Cleavon Little personify in Blazing Saddles—the real men, who know what it’s all about, who have cut through the denial, the hypocrisy and the bullshit to reach a place of mutual respect. In the early Spenser books, this respect is sharp-edged, since it seemed very probable that one day each will be called upon to kill the other. Two warriors, finding a balancing place of trust, at least for the space of a book.
Looking back, I wonder if this was the fragile, secret hope of men coming back from Viet Nam; poor white men and poor black men sent to fight someone else’s war, who reached a place of trust and understanding, and hoped it would last when they went stateside. Well, we all know how that went. Hawk remains an artifact of that unspoken hope.
Hawk is a bigger mystery than Spenser. We never know Spenser’s first name, but we never know Hawk’s original name, where he was born, how he grew up, where he learned to fight, to track, to kill. We don’t know why in his spare time he reads thick tomes on geopolitics and economics while sipping Cristal. Hawk kills more easily than Spenser does, and sleeps better after it. He is what Spenser could have become, and still could become, if he starts to cross the line, to violate his own personal Code.
Back then the whipcord-taut dialogue was a work in progress, but the lean, matter-of-fact action sequences were already perfected. And even then, Parker wasn’t afraid to give his readers women who were smart.
Susan Silverman, Spenser’s main squeeze, a suburban Jewish Princess, is smart enough, and tough enough, to last the long haul with Spenser, and get a Harvard PhD in the process. During those books, written in the mid-eighties, we watch Spenser struggle with the changes Susan is experiencing. The Code doesn’t provide an answer for everything. Other women characters stand out; Rachel Wallace, who is, on the surface, everything Spenser should dislike, and Patricia Utley, a madam, as elegant as a strand of pearls, smooth as an alabaster bowl, and tough as a tempered steel blade.
Back then, Spenser battled corrupt businessmen and women, the Boston political machine and its crime machine. In the eighties, the decade of greed, when crack cocaine was introduced into the inner cities, Spenser and Hawk fought drug dealers, gangsters and murderous real estate kings. Abandoned children, whether literally abandoned or emotionally and spiritually abandoned, figured prominently, including Paul, who becomes the son of Spenser’s heart. In one chilling book, Hawk and Spenser face a pair of soulless teenaged thrill-killers.
Spenser also battles to keep Susan, who actually leaves and takes up with a very bad man in one of the books. Along the way we find out more about the Code. Take a pencil and make a point at the Spenser books, lay down your straight-edge and draw a line straight back through popular culture history to Yul Brummer and the Magnificent Seven. That’s what this is about.
In the early 90s Spenser took on hypocritical right-wing hate mongers and toxically bored suburban housewives. Those of us who had been clear-eyed rebels were becoming middle-aged, and issues were no longer so clear-cut. Villains intertwined with good guys. Talking points became more important that an honest conversation. Fundamentalism of all stripes thrived. Spenser and Susan bought a house in the suburbs, just for awhile. Parker’s female characters grew stupid and predictable, while the men became stamped out copies of Spenser and Hawk; the latino Hawk, the gay Spenser. (In the Sunni Randall books, we have a gay Hawk). Instead of tough cool warriors they started to seem sad and quaint; a group of “get off my lawn” old farts reminiscing about the good old days, only with guns. Don’t get me wrong, they could still bring it. It was what happened in the space between the electric-charged action sequences that was lacking.
It was not surprising that the assassin who nearly ended Spenser’s life was called the Gray Man. Grayness was what Spenser and Hawk were up against now. It’s also not surprising that in a much later book (Rough Weather) Hawk and Spenser confronted the Gray Man, and let him live, because even though he’d done bad things, he’d done them for the daughter he had just discovered. Apparently the warrior code, the cowboy code, wasn’t just black and white either. Sometimes it was gray.
I didn’t like the later books very much, and yet, I remember Spenser and Paul building a cabin in the woods. I remember Spenser driving Susan’s car somewhere. It’s a Japanese import shaped, he tells us, like a carrot. It has push-button, electric everything. Spenser is driving west and the lowering sun is shining in underneath the visor, and, Spenser thinks, “There’s not a damn thing the car could do about it.” He likes that—the fact that ingenuity and technology can’t change some things.
And I liked those books. I loved the terse short-handed dialogue and the rhythm it gave to the prose. I love the little bits of physical detail and description dropped here and there for the reader to trip over, discover, and carry away. I loved the things Hawk and Spenser share, like boxing, and how the gym where they work out slowly changes, becoming a Health Club with a weight room in a back, with a heavy bag and a speed-bag for the regulars. I love how cool they were, and how cool we were, back then.
I’ll miss Mr. Parker, and I’ll miss Spenser, and I’ll be grateful for those early books, for the character who stood up for things. For children, for people who’d been hurt. For what felt right. For honor. For his Code.
Philip walked almost ceremoniously along the shingle towards the bank of pebbles at the edge of the land. The first time he came—he came many times—he was eager to reach the water edge, and only took in the human clutter and the tenacious vegetables with sidelong glances. He met no one. It was his adventure, and felt like his place. When he came to the end, he scrambled up the bank with the pebbles rattling and rushing below him, pulling him down with them, so that he went up slowly and with effort. There was the sea, to be seen from the unstable summit. He stood under a sunny sky and saw that it was dark and deep, with patches of wind, and contrary currents, pulling this way and that, and the waves coming in, and in, the shifting and grinding of the stones. He thought it would be good to see it in a storm, if he could stand up. He was at the edge of England. He thought about edges, and limits, and he thought about Palissy, studying salt water, and fresh water, springs and runnels on the earth. He hadn’t even considered the fact that the earth was round, that he stood on the curved surface of a ball. Here, seeing the horizon, feeling the precariousness of his standpoint, he suddenly had a vision of the thing—a huge ball, flying and covered mostly with this water endlessly in motion but held to the surface as it hurtled through the atmosphere, and in its dark depths, blue, green, brown and black, it covered the colder earth, the sand and stone, to which the light never reached, where perhaps things lived in the dark and plunged and ate each other, he didn’t know, maybe no one knew. The round earth with hills and valleys of earth and the liquid surface. It was pleasant, and frightening, to be alive in the sun.
The Chidlren’s Book
AS Byatt
Well, since I can’t find anything worthwhile to say about writing, here’s a blatant steal from Brian Fies on story-telling. Click here. Brian is talking about graphic novels, a specific technique, but notice what he has to say about timing, pacing and building suspense.
Auburn is about thirty miles north-northeast of the California capital of Sacramento. It is in part a bedroom community for people who work in the capital and surrounding towns like Roseville and Elk Grove. It’s also one of the historic mining towns that line State Highway 49, a traditional Sierra foothill village tucked in among the hills and ravines. The population is about 13,000, and it’s the county seat of Placer County. The original downtown area has been re-imagined as Old Town, a mix of history and tourism, with a beautiful domed courthouse presiding over it.
The courthouse was built in 1894. It is technically the third courthouse, although the first structure, called a “courthouse” by the residents, was in fact a large tent. The second courthouse was a graceful Grecian revival style building made entirely of wood. As time went on, that building began to have maintenance problems. The locals began to worry about having a hall of records that was entirely wood, and these fears grew when Auburn had a couple of serious fires. That’s why they built the third one, crowning the largest hill downtown, three-stories high, with a further sense of grandeur added by the long row of stairs that leads up from each side to the second story entrances. Lawyers and legal clerks in Auburn must have some good calf muscles.
The courthouse is still in use as a courthouse but the ground floor also has a lovely museum that shares a little bit of Auburn’s background. During the work week, visitors have to go through a metal detector to get into the museum, but they do not on Saturdays and Sundays. I felt torn. I was pleased at the convenience (me, with two cameras, two lenses, a purse and a tote bag) but also, as a county worker, a little insecure, thinking that someone could come in on a weekend and hide out until Monday when they could run amok.
The museum had, as one of their rotating exhibits, a series of wedding dresses through the decades. The 1920s dress was pure flapper; a simple thin bodice that looked like a boy’s undershirt, a short silk skirt with a handkerchief hem and a veil that also functioned as a train, about three times the length of the dress. As a bonus, they had a set of photographs, and a picture of that wedding was included. The bride was, well, slender, not to say skinny, with the 20s style headpiece and the veil curling around her ankles like seafoam. They had two dresses from the 1940s, much longer, needless to say, and a simple, lovely white dress from 1910, which was also, to my surprise, kind of short, ending at the ankle.
The museum also has an interesting exhibit on the dentist, Dr Hawver, who, in the late 1800s, located the area’s famous fossil cave. Our docent pulled out the models of the fossil skills of a smilodon, the saber-tooth cat—okay, there’s a good logo for a dentist—and a dire wolf, both of which were found in Hawver cave. The cave has been closed to the public for quite some time because of damage, but the locals are working to get it reopened or at least allow tours. The place was full of Pleistocene era fossils, most of which are now at UC Berkeley. It’s not every day at a local museum that you get to play with a saber-tooth cat skull.
In the lobby they have a wonderful set of Native American baskets from tribes across the continent; from Midwestern cradleboards to Pomo berry baskets and woven water bottles, from the Pate family collection.
The museum was wonderful, and there are two other museums in town we didn’t visit, which was a mistake. Instead we walked down to Old Town, which has a lot of antique stores, some bars, many restaurants and lots of cutesy gift shops. A little disappointing. There is a brew-pub that looked like it might be a good place to eat. The museums would have been a better choice overall, although we did visit an interesting jewelry gallery called Oz, with some wonderful metal sculptures, and a great collective next to the brew-pub. The collective had wood, glass, photography, sculpture, pottery and paintings, and they were having an opening. A Native American woman, not local, was displaying her work. She was in full native regalia and she looked wonderful! The room her display was in was so crowded that we couldn’t get a close look or a chance to meet her; disappointing for us but great for her.
There are a few inns and B&Bs in the area, but we chose the Best Western Golden Key, We were meeting someone who lives in the area and it just seemed easier. It was the perfect choice. The rooms were fine, nothing luxurious, but sparkling clean and comfortable. The staff were, to a person, the most helpful, cheerful and friendly people I have seen in a hotel in a long time. Chuck gave us a big smile as we checked in, sharing jokes about the weather (”Chance of showers,” he said, gesturing to the Weather Channel, as we shook water off our coats.) He volunteered information about restaurants and amenities such as grocery stores. They booked our friend Sharon into the room right next to us so we basically had a suite. When I went up to the office a little bit later to get an additional towel and some paper towels, they young woman behind the counter went overboard, giving us a whole roll. Or, I don’t know, maybe she just knew us. Maids smiled and said hello as we passed them in the morning, and even the young man lugging a toilet to a room that was being refurbished had a big grin. “I don’t usually do this,” he said. “Honest.” He let me take his picture.
The Golden Key has a pool, and they had covered it with a tent. When we went inside, our glasses fogged up. I took mine off. It didn’t make any difference. It was cold enough outside, and the pool was warm enough, that the place functioned like a sauna.
The Best Western chain offers a complimentary breakfast. This isn’t a big aluminum urn of coffee and some pastries wrapped in cellophane. It’s a high-tech breakfast. They have waffle irons on timers, batter dispensers standing by, hot and cold cereal, hard-boiled eggs, fruit, bagels, toast and muffins, and one-cup coffee makers that had me trying to figure out where the di-lithium crystals went in. These coffee makers have a cylinder on top into which you place a cartridge of coffee syrup. You then place a cup under the spout beneath the cylinder, and close the lid. As a third step, you chose whether you want a full cup or a three-quarters-full cup (three quarters will obviously make the coffee stronger). I am leery of coffee-syrup coffee generally, but this was all right and it was so fun to make that it didn’t matter. The timed, no-stick, even-I-couldn’t-screw-it-up waffle iron was the most fun though.
About a block north of the motel is a super-fruit-stand called Ikeda’s. In addition to citrus, grapes, berries and apples they have dried fruit, home-made pies they are apparently well-known for, caramel corn and snacks, a plethora of smears, salsas, spreads and dips, and Ikeda memorabilia such as T-shirts and tote bags. There is also a small café attached. We didn’t try the pies, but I can attest to the fine quality of their dips and their chocolate covered pretzels. Based on the crowd in their parking lot at any time, I’m not the only one who thinks they’ve got good stuff. If you are in a motel and you don’t want to go out for dinner, you could easily find enough to make a picnic meal at Ikeda’s.
We wanted to go out, though, preferably to a place with a bar, so how convenient that there was a restaurant right next to the motel. Lou LaBonte’s looked like a 1960s vintage steakhouse, with the big neon sign out front. Chuck described it, correctly, as “white linen but casual.” He said, “The first time I saw it I thought I was under-dressed to go in. Then I watched people walk out and decided, maybe I was over-dressed.” That sounded promising. We walked over to make a reservation. The entrance takes you straight into the bar, with a TV screen in the back and a long curve of dark polished wood. The bar has two levels—almost like a dance floor or stage at the back, although they had tables set up with balloons tied to the chair, celebrating someone’s 70th birthday. They have karaoke after nine on Fridays and Saturdays. Three steps down lead you into the dining area. There is a fire place on the south wall. Our very nice hostess saved us a table next to it. The place looks like Dean Martin and Peter Lawford would have hung out there and drunk martinis in the sixties. Well, maybe not Martin and Lawford. Maybe some B-list rat-pack wannabes who dressed like them. Over the hall into the kitchen is a dark green semi-circular awning that reads, “Lou La Bonte Theater.”
That wall is mirrored, creating a pleasant illusion of more space, and the walls facing west are windowed, although you’re only overlooking Interstate 80. The hills beyond it might be nice in the spring, though. Throughout the place they have old black-and-white photographs of celebrities. It turns out Lou La Bonte was a musical arranger in Hollywood until the 1950s when he burned out, and came north. He opened the restaurant 61 years ago and they are celebrating that anniversary. The menu is heavy on the beef; prime rib, steaks, burgers, but there are a lot of fish entrees and some pasta. The Sig-O and I ordered the prime rib and Sharon had a New York steak, which took up practically her entire plate. The Sig-O, on impulse, ordered an ahi tuna appetizer for the three of us. This was a little miracle, a complete surprise in the Sierra foothills—sushi grade ahi, crusted in sesame seeds, with soy sauce and wasabi and a mixture of finely shredded cabbage and Asian noodles dressed with a light rice vinegar dressing. The fish was so fresh I’m wondering how they did that. It was perfect and it could have been a meal.
But then I had the prime rib too. It was good, and the mashed potatoes were light and flavorful.
We split a crème brulee also, and it was rich and subtle. The meal was very good but the appetizer and the dessert were beyond that, exceeding expectations.
Like the hotel staff, the servers were efficient, friendly, always attentive but never intrusive. We liked it so much we decided to go there again on Saturday rather than the brewery, although we unanimously agreed to forego the karaoke experience.
When I go back I’ll devote more time to the museums, maybe even participate in the Old Town walking tour that leaves from the courthouse on Saturdays at 10:00am. I’ll go up to the old quarry. Maybe they’ll even have Hawver Cave open for tours! In fact, the best plan for the area would be to take a couple more days and tour Nevada City, Grass Valley and Auburn. I could always stop at Ikeda’s for provisions.
Ikeda’s
13500 Lincoln Way
Auburn, CA 95603-3216
(530) 885-4243
www.ikedas.com
Best Western Golden Key
13450 Lincoln Way
Auburn, CA 95603-3238
(530) 885-8611
www.bestwesterncalifornia.com/…/best-western-golden-key-auburn/ -
Lou La Bonte’s Restaurant
13460 Lincoln Way
Auburn, CA 95603
530-885-9193
Fax: 530-885-4378