letter to the presidents

I sent this letter at the change of the year. I have heard nothing from either gentleman.



Rev. Albert Mohler, President
Southern Baptist Theological Seminary 2825 Lexington Rd.
Louisville, KY 40280
Dear Brothers in Christ,
Rev. Mark Labberton, President Fuller Theological Seminary 135 N. Oakland Ave.
Pasadena, CA 91101

      I come to you with an honest question that I cannot answer. As a grandmother I have children to guide. As a Christian in the World, I must show the love of Our Lord to non- believers. My question is compelling because of my love for the Church Temporal in all of her sorrows and historical sins.          Why, Dear Sirs, does the Evangelical aspect of the Protestant Church obsess about homosexuality?
     Evangelical is a loose term because all Christians are called to evangelism. Conservative as a term for your schools doesn’t make much sense to me. Great scholarship is done at both of your institutions. But the attention of Evangelicals to one of the 617 Laws of Kashrut confuses me greatly. I have seen both of your photos online. Neither of you wear facial hair (Lev. 19:27) and you seem in those pictures to be wearing blended fabric (Deut. 22:11). So what is it about Lev. 18:22? Gentlemen, I just don’t get it.
     The obsession with homosexuality is not limited to the Protestant Church. The Roman and Greek churches have been terrified by man love since their inception. (No one mentions woman love in our Scriptures.) But I am asking this question of you because it is the Evangelical aspect of the Protestant Church that is making all of the noise against marriage equality. Rome has too many other problems and does not like to explain. The Greek/Russian/Syrian churches are, I hate to say it, moribund. They are not my concern as I live in this blessed land whose Constitution enshrines the separation of Church and State. But it breaks my old liberal heart to see the Church Temporal held up to ridicule. Sometimes I am left to saying, “You can’t choose your family,” because I simply don’t understand. I can’t fight the argument because it has never been clearly explained to me.
     You, both being scholars far beyond my ken, know the hard history of our faith. In this great land we have had to break through the theological supports of slavery and of the subjugation of women. Those supports were canards and deserved to be broken. How is marriage equality different? The laws of marriage in the Hebrew Scriptures have nothing to do with one man and one woman. Please explain to me, by the mercy of Christ, why this particular Hebrew law is more important than all others.
     I do understand, my brothers, that you will not respond to me directly; you are the leaders of great seminaries. But I do hope that you delegate my question to someone who can give me an answer.
Yours in Christ,

letter to the Anglican Comunion

      The Anglican Communion is tying itself into knots trying to square the circle of bigotry in the name of Christ. Poor dears, you have tried to do this impossible thing in the past. You supported slavery and fought very hard against women’s suffrage. Yes, there were primates of the Anglican Confession piously nattering about God’s will while Isobel Pankhurst was being force fed in prison. Well, Lambath Palace is behind history’s eight ball again and you are tut-tutting at the Episcopal Church of America just because we love weddings.
       bigot: A person who is intolerant toward those holding different opinions
Origin:Late 16th century (denoting a superstitious religious hypocrite): from French, of unknown origin. ( Oxford English Dictionary)
 This definition is so clear and so damning. “A religious hypocrite.” The Church Temporal is that imperfect knowledge of Christ which lives in the world and history. The Church Temporal has preached and lied. It lied about the Jews thereby creating its greatest sin. It lied about slavery. And it lied about queers in all of its history.
First we must acknowledge that nobody in the Hebrew Scriptures cared about who women loved. There is not one statement or law about women loving women. And there is but one single verse about men loving men and that is Leviticus 18:22—”Thou shalt not lie with mankind, as with womankind: it is abomination.” That’s it, that’s all there is. There is no more about man love than there is about wearing blended fabrics (Deut. 22:11) or facial hair (Lev. 19:27). And yet the Church Temporal has made itself mad and cruel, so very cruel, on the subject of men loving men. What is the deal?
Why is homosexuality the worst thing that anyone in the Church Temporal can think of? Not slavery, not the subjugation of half the human population, but simply the love of man for man. And this pernicious bigotry is tearing at the very heart of the Anglican Communion. All that we in the Episcopal Church of America have done is to let loving, believing Christians get married. What, y’all don’t like marriage? No that’s not the problem. The problem is the British Empire and its aftermath. The problem is colonialism and overcompensating.
The Anglican Communion is embarrassed. It is embarrassed by its colonial history, the history of how it came to Africa and how it set its roots there, a foreign religion imposing itself on cultures it did not understand.
We in the Untied States know this song too well. We brought our fellow human beings to our shores in chains. We denied them the use of their languages and religions. We forced our faith on them. Yet that faith miraculously became their own, sustaining their lives and feeding their liberation.
I have no problem with evangelical religion. Evangelism sits at the heart of Christianity. Francis Xavier was perhaps the greatest evangelist after St. Paul.  And he knew that to spread the Gospel one must know the culture to which it would be spread. He was the father of cultural anthropology. But the evangelical mission combined with empire is just bad for everybody. Send out the missionaries, but never support them with armies. We did it so many places and got it so wrong. Hawaii and the Presbyterian missionaries is only one example. The Bible supported by the Rifle did not work for us. And this is what the Anglican Communion is facing right now.
Dear Anglican Brethren, you know that anti-queer bigotry is real. And you know that it is not Christian. But you turn yourselves inside out to “accept cultural differences.” You are so afraid of offending your post-colonial nations that you won’t do the work of evangelism. Our job as Christians is to speak the truth of Christ and his Grace. Where there is hatred or denial we must sow love. Where the Church finds racism, it must fight it. Where it finds the hatred of women, be it cutting, plural marriage or the under-education of girls, the Church must fight it. This is our love and duty to Christ. As an evangelistic faith we have to preach to all the World. And sometimes, because of our long and dirty history, we have to address and take out the beam in our own eye.
Why the Anglican Confession and larger Church Temporal is so anti-queer is a question I cannot answer. What matters is that we can fix this sin.  In my lifetime I have watched a very homophobic nation, my own, change to full equality. It’s not that hard to do and so much love can be taught. The father doesn’t need to piously deny his daughter or son. The mother doesn’t need choose between her child and her faith. These easy lessons can be taught to anyone. But, it seems, Lambeth Palace does not choose to do the work. Rather than lead the Anglican African churches to the love of all, it succumbs to colonial guilt. “I cannot tell you what to do now as I told you what to do in the past down the barrel of a gun.” Well folks that is the history of the Church Temporal. Just cowboy up and do your job of love.
Get over your Anglican selves. You have destroyed some of your very best: Alan Turing and Oscar Wilde (to mention only two) were ruined by this strange fear of man love.
Changing a theology that was wrong from its inception is not very hard. You can flail around and deny the Episcopal Church of America a seat at the governing table, but we will just go on our merry way and take our money with us. Or you can just admit that you are on the wrong side of history again. You can open your arms and hearts by letting loving faithful Christians get married. It really isn’t as hard as you think it is. Oh, and by the way, just to remind you, we did “open a big can of whoop ass on you at Yorktown.”

an unanswered letter

Rev. Albert Mohler, President
Southern Baptist Theological Seminary 2825 Lexington Rd.
Louisville, KY 40280
Dear Brothers in Christ,
Rev. Mark Labberton, President Fuller Theological Seminary 135 N. Oakland Ave.
Pasadena, CA 91101
I come to you with an honest question that I cannot answer. As a grandmother I have children to guide. As a Christian in the World, I must show the love of Our Lord to non- believers. My question is compelling because of my love for the Church Temporal in all of her sorrows and historical sins. Why, Dear Sirs, does the Evangelical aspect of the Protestant Church obsess about homosexuality?
Evangelical is a loose term because all Christians are called to evangelism. Conservative as a term for your schools doesn’t make much sense to me. Great scholarship is done at both of your institutions. But the attention of Evangelicals to one of the 617 Laws of Kashrut confuses me greatly. I have seen both of your photos online. Neither of you wear facial hair (Lev. 19:27) and you seem in those pictures to be wearing blended fabric (Deut. 22:11). So what is it about Lev. 18:22? Gentlemen, I just don’t get it.
The obsession with homosexuality is not limited to the Protestant Church. The Roman and Greek churches have been terrified by man love since their inception. (No one mentions woman love in our Scriptures.) But I am asking this question of you because it is the Evangelical aspect of the Protestant Church that is making all of the noise against marriage equality. Rome has too many other problems and does not like to explain. The Greek/Russian/Syrian churches are, I hate to say it, moribund. They are not my concern as I live in this blessed land whose Constitution enshrines the separation of Church and State. But it breaks my old liberal heart to see the Church Temporal held up to ridicule. Sometimes I am left to saying, “You can’t choose your family,” because I simply don’t understand. I can’t fight the argument because it has never been clearly explained to me.
You, both being scholars far beyond my ken, know the hard history of our faith. In this great land we have had to break through the theological supports of slavery and of the subjugation of women. Those supports were canards and deserved to be broken. How is marriage equality different? The laws of marriage in the Hebrew Scriptures have nothing to do with one man and one woman. Please explain to me, by the mercy of Christ, why this particular Hebrew law is more important than all others.
I do understand, my brothers, that you will not respond to me directly; you are the leaders of great seminaries. But I do hope that you delegate my question to someone who can give me an answer.
facebokan unanswered quesionYours in Christ,

Houston
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=i2B_Q4LkRUY

Yes, it’s the Gatlin Brothers, yes it’s C & W and it’s been the song in my heart for a month. All through the madness that is Christmas at the store, through the music and celebration at church, Houston has been the bell ringing in me. For it holds two women who are the world to me.
The friends you make in early youth are deeper and stronger than any heart can comprehend.  In 1967 Sierra Mesa School in Sierra Madre CA was a grammar school bursting at the seams. Two full 5th grades, a full 6th and a split 5th and 6th. We were the Baby Boom. It was there that I met my first real friend, her name is Sarah Foote. I believe my first formal words to her were “hey kid, do you want to go swing on the swings with me?”

 
(If anyone sees these girls, please contact Katherine Jenkins. They are out and about and probably causing trouble.)

I met Kathleen Victoria Potter when both of us were in the girls’ choir (the Chantettes, I couldn’t make that name up) at Pasadena High School. Under the tutelage of the mad and brilliant Caroline Shannon, we learned “Wir eilen mit Schwachen,” the first Bach I ever sang. Dear friends I tell you, I learned more music under that crazy woman’s hand than I would for many many years.
Through the magic of Facebook, Kathy found Sarah who also found me. Kathy lives in Houston, Sarah in College Station, and they agreed to a meeting. Then the magic happens. Philip gives me the very best Christmas present in my life. He gives me a trip to Houston Texas, to see my friends. Let the wild rumpus start.
SouthWest flies into Hobby airport in the southern area of Houston. My flight was very easy if a little late. The clouds parted just as we went over the Sierras and it was so glorious to see them covered with snow. We also passed over Lake Powell and Chaco Canyon. A seat mate of mine had a smart phone and we looked at the Southwest application that is supposed to tell the traveler what they are flying over. It is useless. Lake Powell is still very low but a true vision from the air. The great kiva and spiral mound of Chaco Canyon are very clear from ten thousand feet and no less awe-inspiring.
Hobby Airport is pretty easy to get around in with very clear signage. Having checked my bag, being an old woman, I waited with my fellow travelers as the our bags slowly slid down the carousel. My bag is way too generic and looks like everyone else’s but I did find it and wondered where my ride was. Well, my ride had been trying to call me. Yes I do have a little cheap flip phone and yes it was charged. But I never answer it. I called Kathy and she said “Go out the big glass doors where you will see two tall blondes jumping up and down.” I went out the doors and there were in fact two tall blondes, one who had not seen me in 40-plus years, jumping up and down and squeaking. The wild rumpus had officially started.
We all talked at once, trying to catch up immediately. Rationally we knew we had four days together. We were not being rational, at all. Kathy knew how to get us where we were going, to her and Jack’s lovely home in the Clear Lake suburb of Houston. This was also my first view of a city that has no planning or zoning department. Once on the freeway south, I saw the ugliest, over-built city in my experience. Clear Lake is a planned sub-division that has no center. There is no downtown, no place to shop, go to dinner or even walk around of a warm evening.  Just acre upon acre of houses, very similar but not “little boxes” that were built for NASA folks and supporting companies. Mostly made of brick in six or seven styles, from two-bedroom bungalows to Tudor fantasies with curved archways over the front doors. The most disturbing thing about the houses in Clear Lake is how low to the ground they are. No built-up porches, no cellars and certainly no stilts. I will return to my problem of water and where it goes later.
I got to the house with the blue door (Kathy went to Bath and had the full Jane Austin experience. There she saw homes with front doors painted Bath Blue. She came home and painted her front door, which is never used, a deep handsome blue). We went into Chez Bacon through the back door where we were met by the dogs: a sweet and very Yorkie person named Bonnie Woo and a mad whirligig of puppy named Daisy. Even to this complete cat person, Kathy’s fur folks are why people have dogs. The guest bedrooms are upstairs and beautifully appointed. Sarah and I shared a bath and all was right. Once ensconced, we met back in the kitchen, had tea and beautiful cheese and slowly the gates of love opened.
I married late. I was 36 years old when Philip and I made our promises to each other. My darling friends married earlier and to the wrong men. Their stories are universal, crossing all classes, races and cultures. When one is in an abusive marriage, there seems to be no way out. But both of them are now free, Kathy for pushing nine years and Sarah only a year and a half. There were tears that first afternoon and not a few. I do not understand this singular yet common pathology and when I don’t understand I get angry. Never angry at my friends but at the creatures they married. Kathy called it righteous indignation. No, my love, it is simple rage and I must be very careful of its seductive power. Both Kathy and Sarah have allowed me to use their names and tell their stories briefly.
Jack came home from work and found us pulling ourselves together but as teary as expected. The men of the house were so careful of us three, giving us time and space to spend with each other. Someday I may describe the love story of Kathy and Jack, but not here. Jack is built like a buff rugby player, has a warm, resonant baritone, works at NASA (more later) and adores the ground upon which Kathleen Victoria walks. Nicolas Shumny is the son of the house and graduate of IU. He once saved his mother’s life. One of Jack’s joys is playing the guitar and singing. Sarah has learned the ukulele, which she brought. They sat on the sofa in the living room, went through song books and made the music of the trip. Kathy loves cowboy songs and especially “Riding Old Paint.” Somewhere in the depths of her phone is a video of Sarah and Jack playing, Sarah singing and your humble servant joining in. She may show it to you if she wishes.
Kathy said she wanted her house to have a name, just as mine does. Well, my house is called “The Prancing Pony.” We even have a sign which was given to us by very dear friends. Her place was in pretty bad shape when she came to live in Clear Lake. She taught herself to do everything, hang drywall, paint and even some rudimentary plumbing. She and Jack turned the house into a thing of beauty. And what does she call this handsome and welcoming home? “The Crack House.” That is my girl.
After a lovely dinner, the party retired to the upstairs family room and watched the first episode of the monumental HBO series From the Earth to the Moon. I love this series and refer to it as Spaceman Spiff. I was surprised that Jack, the true 25-year NASA man, also admires it. Once the show was done so were the older members of the party and we went to our beds. Nicholas could watch whatever he wanted. I laid my head on a pillow where there was no Philip and slept anyway. And so ended the travel day.
All hail Sam Houston, great son of Tennessee and shining star of Texas. But really Sam, get a damned planning department because that’s your name on this hash of a city.

when your life falls down the stairs

Long ago and south and east.

We went to the Riverside County Fair, known by most as “the Date Festival.” It was February, there were honest and true people in costume (the ladies in harem pants and the gentlemen in red fezzes). In  one of the animal barns a future farmer of america (FFA) was showing his rabbit. The future farmer was about nine years old. He stood, stalwart and firm, in front of a judge’s table, trying to show a completely recalcitrant rabbit. The farmer would show a rabbit paw, the judge would examine said paw, and the rabbit would go apeshit. It would try to jump and get out of its owner’s grasp. But the grasp of the boy was greater than the madness of the bunny. The boy held and petted the bunny, calming it down. Then he would show another paw or foot or other body part, and the whole song would begin again. 

The judge kept the straightest face in the world.

It was Philip’s great day. His mass was sung at St. Paul’s. I think I speak for the whole choir, we   sweated blood all over the damn thing. Being a Schoenbergain, his chords were hard to learn. But it was a good performance, a good first pass and the usual suspects collected at the house to eat and drink and celebrate.

I did not see it happen, thank blessed Jesus. Everything had been eaten (I didn’t make enough) and the children were out on the front porch getting high. From the house I heard a problem on the porch. The problem was my life, lying on the ground and turning a color that does not exist in nature.

They, all the saints, tried to get him up the steep stairs. But he is 6 feet 2 inches tall and over 200 pounds. As dead weight, that’s hard to shift. Christopher cushioned Philip’s head in his lap. Tania, nephew Sean’s perfect sweetie, called 911. Her mother Anna is a nurse and they were standing stones in the river of panic that was overtaking me. My life was being put into an ambulance and taken to Highland Hospital, trauma center of the north county, known to some as The Saturday Night Knife and Gun Club. Nephew Sean took me to said club because I was not fit to drive and it was only going to get worse. 

We got to emergency and I said I wanted to see my husband. They said that he was in a CT scanner and I could see him in 45 minutes. And I got worse. They sent me a very nice social worker and I was rude and dismissive. The ward nurse, the person in charge, saw madness in my spinning eyes. She excused the nice social worker and explained why my life was at Highland Hospital rather than at our Kaiser (which is 5 blocks from our house) because of trauma. Trauma, head trauma, he fell downstairs and they had to check for back, neck or head trauma. By this time I wanted to burn the damn place down. I have always gotten angry when I am frightened. The older I get the worse it gets. I was terrified. I didn’t want a nurse, no matter how thoughtful and kind. I wanted a doctor to tell me when I could take my life home. Well, I could just go ahead and want.

They got Philip into a bed after the CT scan and neck x-rays. Then they gave me a ward pass with one extra that could be passed to one of the many who wanted to see him. The lobby was filled with our people. My in-laws from Cupertino with said nephew Sean with sweetie and sweetie’s mommy were the first wave, and Philip’s brother Steven joined me at the bedside. There was my life on a hospital bed with a neck brace. He was not breathing well because of the brace but they didn’t know that. They were looking for neck trauma.

  It was so good that the nurse came in to remove the brace within two minuets of me sitting down. (By this time the word on the ward was I was completely mad and must be treated gently.) His head was getting really stuffy because of the neck brace and the flat bed. She gently (I don’t remember anyone’s name except for one Dr. named Gilbert) removed the brace because the neck x-rays were clear. No neck trauma

And so it went. Doctors and nurses came, went and tried to calm me down. I was the apeshit rabbit. Family and friends came to check in. First was brother Steven and sis-in-law Betty, then came Christopher K., musician extraordinary, who cradled Philip’s head in his lap as we waited for the EMT’s. It was Christopher who saw Philip fall and Christopher who discovered my life’s super power. As described, Philip fell on the first of 7 steep steps, turned into a barrel, and rolled down the stairs. He never hit his head nor did his neck get out of whack. But nobody knew that, so that’s why we were at Highland. (Do you hear the rabbit?)

Tonia was sitting with us and the rabbit was almost calm when a triage nurse came in with not the best confession. I had checked the yellow plastic bag of Philip’s belongings. There were the shoes, there was the tie and there was the little wallet. But where were the money, the keys and the phone? In fact where were his clothes? After a check with emergency the triage nurse came in. She was very apologetic but not only were Philip’s clothes cut off of him (he was compos mentis and could have cooperated in getting them off), they were thrown to the ground, cleaned up and thrown away. This information set the rabbit off. I frightened a triage nurse at Highland Hospital in Oakland CA. I am not proud of this fact.

Just a heads up: adrenaline is a powerful drug. I am not used to it.  I started to crash and just wanted to get in the bed with Philip and go to sleep. Finally my life was transfered to Kaiser (did I say 5 blocks from our house?) everyone else was sent to their own beds and I went home to get clothes, books and reading glasses for my life. Chad had asked to sit with his dad if said dad needed to spend the night at Kaiser. The son came over, picked up the bag and got bad instructions to Kaiser emergency. (For those of you not from Oakland, Kaiser has finally finished a new place between Piedmont and Broadway. I forgot.) 

Five minutes after Chad left, Philip called to say Kaiser wanted him to go home. They looked at everything, figured out that he had fainted, nothing was broken and would you please take him away. Thus, rather than having to spend the evening with his father in the hospital, Chad was allowed to bring him home. After kisses and all love, the perfect son went to his own hearth and I put my life into his own bed. I did wake up several times in the night just to check he was there. My perfect boss gave me Tuesday off in addition to my normal Monday, and I came to work on Ash Wednesday almost straight.

I am the rabbit and my atheist Baptist Philip holds the rabbit and pets and calms me down, even from his hospital bed. And through him, despite his unbelief, Christ holds the rabbit. The love and support of my Lord was manifested in so many. Sean with his careful attention and clear head was a manifestation of Christ. The friends, the Muffletumps, who cleaned up after the party so I came home to a sweet house, they were manifestations of Christ. The love of Christ fell on me like rain that day.  

Christ is also the judge, working hard to keep a straight face while the the rabbit goes apeshit.

West Linn and Portland

Please find the patient, doped to the gills, being patient with his doting Elizabeth. 

All I did was ask for a smile.

We will begin this report with the technical stuff. Kirk and his doctors, who are many, have agreed that there will not be more surgery any time soon. Kirk’s cancer is now considered systemic and it will be fought with a medication that fits the profile of its own private madness. The good docs of OHSU (Oregon Health and Science University) have mapped the genome of the cancer and matched it to an existing medication called Dasatinib. He started taking it on 12/07/14 where upon it turned his stomach and gave him horrible headaches. Both of these symptoms have calmed down, he soldiers on and we wait for a negative to be proven.

  There are many saints who made this trip possible. Vickie, Richard, Liz & Tim, you know who you are. Saren and Jake, who simply rented our guest room, took us to the airport. We are standing in a rainbow of love. Because of all of this help we arrived at Portland International at 7:55am and were in Kirk’s hospital room by 10. It was so easy! We went downstairs and got our bags, two of which carried our sleeping bags, and went to the trolley which took us downtown. The connection to the #8 bus took about three minutes and we were on our way up the hill to the hospital. I love traveling in Portland, it’s like traveling in Europe, so easy.

OHSU is on a steep hill on the west side of Portland that was given to Oregon University at the beginning of the last century by a railroad baron named Jackson. It was a hill, he couldn’t lay rail on it. On said hill there are multiple hospitals, a VA, a Shriners and OHSU which is by far the largest. It is in fact huge. We got lost and mightily frustrated but finally achieved our aim, that being, Kirk. He was as you see him, full dressed, with his lung tube already out and waiting for his iv tube to be removed. 

We parked our bags in his room and I began to fidget. That’s what I do in hospitals. Although deeply appreciative of the excellent care they give, what I want from hospitals is to get my beloveds out. Kirk had a splendid nurse who really knew his stuff. This was good because getting the iv shunt off of K’s hand was rather difficult. Basically nail polish remover was used to get rid of the adhesive. I questioned if we needed to get same on our way to Kirk’s abode. No, said the grandpa Philip, the girl loves nail polish and has her own remover.

Kirk was finally released about 2pm. This surprised the patient and the patient’s father. They were expecting about 6pm. I am so glad that they gave him to me when they did. It’s a very good hospital and it would have been just awful if I’d had to burn it down. As has been previously stated, “Just give me my beloved and nobody gets hurt.”

Once out in the world, Kirk took us the pretty way to his home. Our way wound along Terwilliger until we got to the 5, down to the 205 and thence to the great metropolitan center of West Linn OR . West Linn is a lovely little town and Kirk’s place is very cozy. This pleased me no end and I took my grandma place, straightening up the kitchen. People who work or are trying to wrangle a 6 year old and cancer cannot make a workspace the way I want. It was so easy to make sense of that little galley kitchen.

Then I opened the refrigerator. Two big foil pans, one of Culolias mac & cheese and one of barley and chicken. In the freezer was rigatoni and ragout and something else my poor brain can’t remember. Where in the world did all of that food come from? Who brought such love to my son and granddaughter? Her name is Nancy Nicholas Culolias Tyree and she is the younger sister of my best friend. The two Culolias girls put their gorgeous heads together in order to take care of Kirk. Nancy lives in Boring, about 25 minutes from West Linn, and just showed up. Kirk’s roommate Alison told the story. It was in the morning, maybe after nine, when there was knock on the kitchen door. Alison opened it and there laden with food stood Nancy. Alison had never met Nancy, Kirk had never met Nancy. This saint introduced herself as Liz’s sister, deposited her gifts, and went on her way. (Now I must describe Culolias mac & cheese. In a béchamel, multiple cheeses are melted and cooked with sausage and pasta. If you want to make someone strong after illness, feed them Culolias mac & cheese. With that and some salad, one can heal the world.)

Mathilda knew her grandfather very well and was happy to have him back. She is a smart girl and, sadly, has made the connection between her daddy being sick and her grandfather coming to visit. I was pretty new to her. She kind of remembered me from our Thanksgiving visit two years before. For the first day or so, she checked me out. But I was with Grandpa, so I must be ok. 

It was Thanksgiving and the real problem was Mathilda’s father. Kirk has known me, and well, since he was 10 years old. We are two Piceans who have been swimming around each other for 25 years. That knowledge made my son a trifle over-careful on the subject of Thanksgiving Dinner. He was quite concerned that I wanted to make a turkey dinner, with St. Cranberry and all fixings. So I cornered him in the kitchen, gave him the Mammy Yokum single whammy and asked, “What do you want?” What he wanted was steak, New York Strip for him and Spencer for us, scalloped potatoes, brussels spouts, orange and red-onion salad etc. We bought some nice wine, dined well and comfortably. I was so thankful to be able to cook for my family.

Friday it rained cats dogs and wildebeests. We went, en famille, to the Oregon Museum of Science & Industry. This is a terrific place, probably the best of its kind I’ve ever seen. Set in the industrial area right by the mighty Willamette, there are so many hands on displays and things to see and do. Kirk in his wisdom has a membership and the Girl never tires of the place. There is a blue screen interactive display where the youngsters can put on their very own invisibility cloaks. After our science experiments we went to a cozy watering hole of Kirk’s knowledge. He and his father drank very good beer, the Girl drew pictures while dining on really good mac & cheese. I had a good martini and the best burger I’ve ever put my teeth on.

Now I must speak of rivers. I am afraid of rivers. I know the Sacramento, both at her magical source in Redwood Park, Shasta City, and her broad delta that feeds so many. I have seen the great Colorado as a green ribbon, cutting through the Grand Canyon. It was a mile down so it seemed safe. My fear comes from what rivers, big rivers, can and will do. The destruction they wreak is difficult to describe. With all of her locks and controls, the mighty Missouri/Mississippi can cover the middle part of our nation with water. She has done it in the long past, she can do it again. Portland is a city of rivers.

We went to Kirk and Mathilda’s closest city park. Let it be known that there are three parks in the city of West Linn (pop. 25,425) and Willamette Park was Kirk’s choice. While the grandpa did his best impersonation of Charlie Lau and the Girl really hit the ball, I gingerly walked down to the River. This park is where a smaller river, the Tualatin, joins her mother Willamette. The water, in late fall, is grey green and inexorable. The Tualatin, like all of her sisters, must go to the Willamette and She must go to the great mother Columbia and the Columbia must go to the Pacific. They are all scary as hell and so beautiful. What shall I do? 

Sunday we got a lovely visit with Fay and Frank in an handsome and delicious little bistro close to their place. They live very close to the Episcopal Cathedral of Portland. There is good music to be made there and in the larger city.

Portland is no longer an unknown for me. It is a beautiful city with family, friends and real live rapid transit. I am so tired of the stasis of applications and interviews that lead to silence. Ok Portland, what do you need? Give my man a job and we will come.

the Putnams glorious

the Putnams glorious

angels and fantasy

angels and fantasy

I had intended to write about the drive down to Cayucos from Oakland. But I need to tell you about Angels and a fantasy.

Last year the Mommy/Sister did not go to the little seaside perfection that is Cayucos, San Luis Obispo County, CA. They were running around the Greater Southwest like tee toe tums. This year they did, though, so to meet them I drove down 880 to 101, and through the glorious Salinas Valley, thence south of Paso Robles and to the Pacific on the 46. I got to Cayucos and my family’s rented condo just in time for cocktails at Lavone’s, about a block down the street. Lavone is a retired Sierra Madrian and the girls always like to touch base with her when they go up. A watery vodka martini is improved mightily by a beautifully pickled green bean. Back at our own fireside (the Julie always wants a fireplace when at the beach) we planned the next day.

The Edna Valley is part of the Paso Robles appellation, a beautiful alluvial valley surrounded with cinder cones. The finest volcanic earth in the state nurtures the wines of this place. Our first stop was Steven Ross on Tank Farm Road in San Luis Obispo. They have a brand new tasting room with some nice wines. From there to Orcutt Road and Balleyana where we found two lovely Spanish style wines by Tangent. The Albiaño in especial is very nice. As we passed the Madonna Inn on our way back to the beach, Julie and I hatched a plan and did not tell our mother. But more about the fantasy later. It is time for the angels.

My mother is 90, sister Julie was 62 in November and I will be 60 in March. Julie is slim and very active. I am neither and am enjoying the early effects of arthritis. This means that walking with my mother is more natural to me than the sister. Thus, Julie went ahead to Schooner’s Wharf to get a table. The Mommy and I walked, slowly, from the condo down to where Julie had procured the perfect spot for watching the setting sun. We drank and talked and I had almost enough shrimp—but honestly, is there such a thing? With our next day planned out we headed back to the condo. Julie took the car and Mommy and I went down to the beach hoping for a shorter and easier trek to our temporary fireside.

Earlier in that morning we observed, from the comfort of our private veranda, a lovely large family spreading out their blankets and putting up their pavilions. They were just about packed up when we two gimps walked down the little wooden steps to the sand. And then my darling old mother fell. I’d never seen her fall before and although the sand cushioned her a good deal it also hid a piece of glass that cut her heel. While I stood there like a fool, the angels swooped down to help. The father and son picked her up, gentle as a mother. One of the daughters noticed the cut heel and got a clean towel to stop the bleeding. The angels insisted that we get into their beautiful black SUV, and took us to the condo. Whereupon the gentlemen angels, one on each side, carried my mother up three flights of stairs. Julie came out the front door to remonstrate us for being tardy when she realized that the Mommy had taken a fall and was wounded. We thanked the blessed angels as much as they would let us and then they were gone. You may not think of Fresno as a neighborhood of Heaven, but these Chicano angels live there so it must be.

Now we come to the fantasy. As previously stated, Julie and I planned to have a drink at the Madonna Inn. Said drink would end our rambles on Monday. Our first stop that day was See Canyon and their deeply wonderful apples. It is a deep, long arroyo that follows a seasonal stream from San Luis Obispo to the Pacific, whose depths nurture several beautiful apple orchards. In the winter it gets cold down in those gullies and the apples get very happy, even our last winter. See Canyon Ranch is our go to place for apples. A short left hand turn, a white stone gravel parking and a shed full of apples. The folks there know their stuff. In a long shed there are paper bags of apples, tomatoes and small squash. Along the walls are locally made honeys, jams and pickles. At the back of the shed is the tasting table. Just like at a winery, we tasted and chose from a dizzying array of the freshest apples possible. Do you know Chieftan or Redgold? Well, y’otta, go down to See Canyon and check them out. The traveler sees the trees from which the apples come on the way to the shed.

With our apple swag we headed down the canyon to Avila Beach. This is a strange place because it is so new. It had been an oil depot and the land was poisoned. Arco finally ponied up, dug up the poisoned sand and built a new town. Avila Beach is very pretty, with Caribbean colored condos and a sweet main street. It’s all so new that it looks like a move set. With all of that, one can walk out the old pier, look down the steps and into the blue green clear water. And there you will see Pacific seals. They loll. They loll on the steps, they loll on what was the little dock. Sometimes they seem to just seem to loll into the water. With the sun slanting in the water, they are so beautiful. We tore ourselves away and headed up the 101 to the Madonna Inn.

My dear readers, you must understand that I have passed the Madonna Inn all of my life. Having lived in San Francisco and Petaluma long before the 5 was built, our family used the 101 at least twice a year, and we passed the Madonna Inn. In high school—Pasadena High (go Bulldogs)—I had a friend named Pam. Her family traveled the 101 once a year and that’s how I first heard of the Madonna Inn. They stayed there every summer on their way to somewhere. So it has always been there, looking slightly Disney, just off the 101 just south of San Luis Obispo. We drove into a huge parking lot, found an easy handicapped space and walked by a very pretty rose garden. The Disney sense is very strong because of the manicured perfection but all bets were off once we went through the curved wood and beveled glass main doors. 

Once inside we were met by a high ceiling of winding vines, flowers of various purple hues, and fairy lights. A sweet doll on a swing invited us to the main dinning room. The seating is sumptuous in tufted leather, round high backed banquets on the floor with rectangular ones against the left wall. The far right wall is the broad doorway to the night club and I do not use those words lightly. It is a beautiful space with ample seating and a gorgeous dance floor. Live music is played seven nights a week from the bandstand at the top of the room under a big window.

We sat for a drink in a sumptuous side bar with a huge glass backed wall, filled with gleaming bottles. There was no one else in this room in the palace of fantasy except the three of us and a very good bartender. We ordered our drinks and the most rational bar snack in the entire world, a relish tray. No dip; fresh sliced carrots, celery, cheese, peperoncini, salami and Lindsey black olives; is that so hard? I want this in every bar. We sat in beautifully upholstered high backed captain’s chairs in colors of cream, pink (on the dusky side) and cobalt blue. As I relaxed into this luxury, I realized something very important: these chairs were not covered in virgin naugahyde, but leather, on the butter side.

Here is the thing about the the Madonna Inn: everything is real. The carpets are wool, the paneling is wood and all of the seating is covered with leather. The couple who made it all happen might have had questionable taste but they knew comfort. They knew how to make their guests feel welcomed. And so they and their children have done, very well, for many years. No, nobody paid me for this, I’d just never been to the Madonna Inn. If I had been allowed there, before the age of 13, I would have demanded that we stop at this place every time we traveled from the North to the South for so many years. You dodged that bullet Mommy.

The apples of See Canyon became a pretty fine pie, the travels are all catalogued and I am at home in Oakland. Yet all I can remember are the angels of Fresno.