Break up, break down

Picture this: an athletic field with four light poles on the north side of the field, bleachers, some athletes running a football practice on a community college campus in the waning summer on California’s north coast. Generally foggy and moist, this campus is named “College of the Redwoods,” and it is located south of Eureka in Humboldt County.

Two of the light poles on the athletic field feature osprey nests. I’m told the ospreys use them both, switching from one to the other each year.

I watched a video two days ago. A Christian was interviewing another Christian on a Christian news show carried on a Christian podcast network. The guest used to make money as a psychic, until she realized all divination is demonic. She now makes money as an evangelical, I guess; she looked prosperous.

She was well-groomed and fit. She talked about the sacrifice of downsizing her income. I guess off camera she is slaving away like I am, cleaning cat boxes, walking and washing dogs, housecleaning, laundry, etc. She’s probably homeless and driving a toxic 30-year-old car.

I watched a food delivery to the chick in the nest through binoculars the other day while stumbling around campus, lost, looking for a non-existent bookstore, eating my free lunch while searching for the nearest bathroom. I was about as tired as I’ve ever been but was able to stop and watch the parent drop off a meal to the juvenile in the nest. That made my day, which was far from over.

Watching Pocketful of Miracles, but not watching. I’m wondering if my mind will come back.

Working on the Building

This is such a precious song from Elvis.

I’m not a lifelong Elvis fan, but I know his werk, because he was current and influential when I was small.

We had two 45 rpm records when I was growing up in the 60s that had Hound Dog, Don’t Be Cruel, That’s Alright Mama, and the name of the other track escapes me. My mother once told me that Grandma couldn’t get through Old Shep because it made her cry too much.

My big sister insisted on getting one of his Christmas albums. She’s the Elvis fan in the family. When I visited his birthplace in Tupelo (on my way to Cape Cod from Humboldt County in 2011) I collected some acorns for her to plant. She can grow anything.

I’ll never forget the day Elvis died. My brother had just burned the crap out of himself by tripping and slipping on a freshly tarred roof, and he came home with a horribly burned hand and arm. I was 15 and had a car, but no driver license, so I drove to the nearest doctor and asked him to help my brother. This after I backed into a taxi after illogically buying bandages and ointment from Safeway.

Never understood the religious fervor for Elvis, although I do have insight from when my brother-in-law Tommy was dying of liver damage from a life-time of drug use and was not robust enough to accept his sister’s donation. She almost died too, of staph, at the Leahy Clinic of all places.

Anyway, I sent my husband Dave down/up to Boston during the middle of a pledge drive because the family needed him to take command: buy a sound system and some good music like Revolver, fill the room with beautiful flowers and find a reputable reiki practitioner for starters.

Fortunately, the guy who started reiki in the U.S. founded his school in nearby New Hampshire or Vermont — I forget which — so the place was lousy with reiki practitioners and a suitable person was located and summoned.

That night I had a dream in which Dave and I were trying to stay out of Death’s sites, because Death had a machine gun and was stalking Tommy, who was clueless, hardly there, really. We were trying to warn Tommy but he wouldn’t stay still long enough to receive a message.

We didn’t want Death to know we knew what He was trying to do, because we didn’t want to be targeted. So we decided to write Tommy a note and pretend to accidentally drop it so he would be curious and pick it up and read it, which he did.

The minute Tommy read the note and understood it, we heard the loudspeaker say that Elvis was going on in five minutes. I was like, “Oh, right, Elvis, what is this? Oh brother.” I looked around. The place was furnished in an early 60’s fashion. The stereo was made of wood and was in a walnut cabinet supported with legs. The coffee table was low, oval, and also walnut. The carpet was one of those avocado, high-pile jobs, sturdy enough for an office, but fashionable enough for a home. It contrasted nicely with the furniture, and there was a cocktail party going on.

The first party-goers I saw might have been a couple of Shirelles and a Cookie, I dunno, these were bad-ass singers with bad-ass hairdos, cocktail dresses and spike-heel shoes, but I couldn’t swear they were in the same group, only that each was a member of an opening act.

Then the headline act went on and I turned around and it was Elvis. I was like, Oh my God, it IS Elvis. That’s Elvis Presley!! That’s really the King!! I was so happy he wasn’t an impersonator, and felt so awed and lucky. He looked and sounded magnificent.

It took a second to put things together and realize that if that really was Elvis, I must be in Rock and Roll Heaven, and that must mean I was either dead or dreaming. I turned to tell Dave we had to get out of there and woke up. I’m going to Rock and Roll Heaven to join Dave when I die. I’m playing this song on my Mom’s 1972 Martin guitar to get ready.

I heard it the first time only a few weeks ago on a commercial radio station broadcasting from Ferndale, where American Graffiti was shot. “That sure as hell sounds like Elvis,” I thought.

This morning I got a text after 7’oclock, which woke me up. It was for Angela, who used to have my phone number. I have a jaunty ringtone, to combat depression, but it is lengthy too, providing an opportunity to do a little dance before getting whatever bad news is coming through, or in the case of good news, prepares the ground for celebration.

But it was too early. I swam last evening at Indian Beach, which used to have a lighthouse on it but it was removed due to Native protest a year or so ago. As a reward for my swim I slept soundly, having really given relaxation its moment in the sun this weekend, as Saturday was a work day.

So I tried to settle back down to sleep again, but my ex-upstairs neighbor as of today showed up, stomping up the stairs, shouting commands, running around grabbing things. I heard her say hello to an arrival, but it wasn’t until I heard a high-pitched tearing sound that I realized the carpet was being changed. A text came in from one of my roommates complaining about the noise, but complaining about other sounds too, like music and shows playing too loud.

I struggle these days to enjoy content after hours, because in order to respect the needs of my roommates and neighbors, I play subtitles, which are grotesquely misspelled and often don’t display properly or in sync with the audio. Half the time I watch videos I am merely listening, because I’m facing away from the monitor. I only started watching videos on my computer when I started doing lengthy back stretches. While in bed I normally stretch, and normally consume content.

It helps me appreciate just how good the video is if its audio alone can deliver. I am so considerate of my roommates’ need to work from home and their need to sleep restfully during the night without noise. They have stated they need quiet for school and work purposes. Personally, I could live without the sanctimonious, demanding tone of their texts, but I had been forewarned of this by prior roommates.

By 10 o’clock I heard myself saying aloud for the world to hear:

“I’m awakened by a text for someone else, who hasn’t had this number in over two years, then there’s loud clomping and voices, and my roommates are texting me to stop making noise. The carpet man shows up and starts tearing and hammering. A text comes in from the landlady, saying she scheduled a carpet replacement for upstairs, for today, this morning, now.

“Thanks for the heads-up!

“I can’

Today

Today my son sent me and his sister a picture of his new — reclaimed — clean-shaven look. He named it “face reset.” Then I logged on to Facebook and a memory from 11 years ago stared back at me: both kids, the year their parents broke up. I can see their innocence dissolving, but I can also see how well-developed they are.

Not sharing, thanks FB.

Sam’s happy, clean-shaven smile reminds me of when his Dad cut his long hair after we moved to Bernal Heights, when Sam was about 18 months old. Dave was super-handsome anyway, but the haircut really showed it.

I had about two years to enjoy Dave’s face before he was beaten while Sam and I were away in the summer of 1998. Dave was trying to buy drugs, while high on mushrooms, though fortunately not far from San Francisco General. Sam and I were in Massachusetts with his doting grannies and same-age cousin and Dave was expected to join us in a few days.

I enjoyed time off from constantly keeping Sam occupied but leaving Dave to his own devices was always risky. When he didn’t pick up our phone for two days I knew something was wrong, and when I finally reached him he was vague about what happened.

I was shocked to see his new look, the black eyes, his nose swollen and lumpy and crooked when I met him at the ferry. The swelling went down, but his nose stayed crooked and I got used to it. He told his family he was beaten up because some Black men tried to steal the new bike he was riding, which was mine.

I bought a 6-speed Schwinn Cruiser nine years earlier but Dave broke the frame somehow just by riding it. Since the warranty had not yet expired Schwinn replaced the frame, but Dave left it unattended and it was stolen, so he bought me a new Cruiser, and approached two men, asking for drugs. One man seized my Kryptonite lock and demanded the rest of the bike but Dave wouldn’t give it to him. According to Dave, his assailant beat him the length of a city block before letting him escape with the bike.

Rob Scott invited us to Provincetown a few days later and met us in Woods Hole with his Mom’s famous car. Rob took us swimming in Wellfleet and drove us to Provincetown to meet Merritt at the Governor Bradford Hotel where he worked. Looking at the words “Governor Bradford” from across the street jarred a memory of my Dad telling me Bradford was one of our family’s progenitors.

After we got back to San Francisco Dave cut his hair. I swooned when I saw him. I thought he was cute because I was in love with him, but when he cut his hair I saw an objectively fine, drop-dead gorgeous guy — whose son now looks a lot like him.

For the past few weeks I’ve been listening to several versions of Marty Balin’s “Today,” which first appeared on Surrealistic Pillow, produced by Jerry Garcia. Some weeks ago I accidentally transferred all my Jefferson Airplane songs onto my iPhone, which I play at random. “Today” struck a chord that kept resonating until I had to find out everything online about Marty Balin.

Listening to the song led me into a new appreciation of the Jefferson Airplane, whom Dave revered. In high school JA was my second-favorite band but I didn’t know many of their songs because nobody in my family bought their albums. When I started buying records I could only afford one band, the Beatles. I don’t know how the Jefferson Airplane could be my second-favorite band when I didn’t have ears to appreciate them, but I’m grateful for their music today, Grace notwithstanding.

Dave must have noticed the passing of Skip Spence in 1999 because he bought a Moby Grape CD in 1999 and asked me if I had heard of Skip Spence.

Since Dave was usually on the brink of taking a “journey” — a drug holiday lasting at least three days — my biggest task during our marriage was corralling him into his areas of interest and tethering him to projects. Reading about Spence today gives me insight into Dave.

It’s a burden having a large talent because rarely can any person find the right situation to develop it, and when one does find the situation, talent balks at discipline, so focus becomes key. For some reason, Dave and Spence felt they needed drugs to focus. Drugs, unfortunately, burn out the connection between the artist and audience, destroying the worth of talent.

One time Dave got ahold of a copy of “Moon,” by Tony Fletcher. That might have been his longest journey ever. I knew he wouldn’t finish his holiday until he finished the book and I remember looking at the book on the coffee table and wishing he would hurry up. It was a thick book.

I wanted Dave’s talent to be as widespread as all the other musicians I admired because I thought his songs, his voice, his humor and intellect were good for the world. I still think that, especially today, his 51st birthday.

Anniversary grief is real for me, so the second half of June has been miserable since Dave passed, but this year was especially difficult. I thought it might have a lot to do with Mercury retrograde, and another betrayal and eviction, but while the horror of my external world whipped me like a frantic jockey in a race for my life, Marty Balin was singing “Today” through my headphones, over and over and over. He was my saving grace.

I found that I liked the live Monterey Pop version better than the album version, even though JA dropped the first verse. Marty’s delivery was perfect and Grace Slick accompanies him on piano and vocals with uncharacteristic reverence. After a few days  I went back to the album version and Jerry’s guitar. I can only take so much of Grace, since I realized last month she hijacked the Airplane after Signe left.

I’m not sure how I discovered Tobacco Road from JA’s first album, but Marty and Signe sing it into the ground. It was my theme song while moving out of my downtown digs in my former lawyer’s office.

Anyone who knows downtown Eureka avoids it, documents it, or takes protection when they go there, so I didn’t mind leaving, except it meant I would be homeless. It’s better to be homeless with a car than without, and fortunately the government gave me $1200, and I knew someone who would sell me a decent car with attractive terms.

Since evictions were illegal, my lawyer had to play dirty to get me out of the office and twice I sought (and received) police protection from him. He terrorized me for weeks. I listened to Tobacco Road the whole time, learned it, played it. That’s when my love and respect for Skip Spence was born because I learned he was the dynamic drummer on JA’s first album even though he wasn’t really a drummer.

Incidentally, Dave had several alter-egos when he sold radio public service announcements at the time I met him and one of them was Jerry Miller, a Moby Grape guitarist.

Today, like all days, I give thanks for Dave. He has given me everything I wanted, which was music appreciation and ability, children and a dynamism that propels me forward.

Today, I can’t say much else about him because it’s a busy day, and there are things to look forward to, like finding a real home and jumping in the ocean, two things Dave and I did together.

Happy Birthday, Babe.

Going the Distance for Equality

Social Distancing is the latest trend.

The goal of public relations is to get everyone excited about the same thing, whether it has value or not. People are really buying this social distancing business, so I have to give a lot of credit to the one(s) who dreamed this up.

I see it as an abridgment of the right to assemble, but I always see draconian measures masked as public health measures as human rights abuses.

I’m feeling kinship with the canary in the coal mine.

The canary in the coal mine doesn’t have a vote and is there in the coal mine against his/her wishes for safety and long life.

As an activist I have had to be brave. I have had to act outside my comfort zone, for the good of the planet, my children, freedom. I have been punished soundly for being a whistleblower, in many arenas.

The reason for this is deterrence, not because activists pose a threat. Those who are in a position to affect many lives are there because they are willing to transgress natural law and human decency. If they are exposed, they don’t stop transgressing, they intensify it, as a deterrence, to prevent further activism or whistleblowing.

Allow me to illustrate:

In the case of John F. Kennedy, who held the most powerful office in a world that loved him, the president offended power brokers and he had to be removed because he was a peaceful man and the power brokers REALLY believed war was the better option.

Kennedy did the right thing by exercising the power of his office to check the power brokers who wanted war. He was within his rights, acting responsibly and for the benefit of all, but he was audacious enough to defend the will of the people — equality and freedom) which earned him an especially public and bloody murder that traumatized not just his family, but his country and the world, as a deterrent.

Subsequent public and bloody assassinations drove the point home.

This is the fate of the activist and whistleblower, and JFK was both. He went the distance.

Lynne Cox has also gone the distance. I’ve been studying her work lately and learned something yesterday that floored me. The day before she swam a mile in 32-degree water in Antarctica, in 2003, she swam 9/10 of a mile in the same water, and already had nerve damage as a result.

While she trained she was inspired by whistleblower extraordinaire Gus Grissom and his crew mates, Mr. Chaffee and Lt. Col. White, incinerated on the launch pad at Cape Kennedy in January 1967.

Like everyone else, I am reprioritizing everything and trying to meet my immediate goals. The past 10 years were catastrophic and I am officially disabled as a result of the legal and financial rigors imposed on my body, mind and spirit. I am homeless, dependent on the kindness of others.

The world around me was relatively stable during those 10 years. My life was chaotic compared to my peers (most of whom abandoned our friendship as a result of my being so needy), so it was to my benefit that I was able to make day-to-day plans and crawl along, fighting for independence while continuing to raise school-age children on both coasts.

I cried continuously and copiously, but quietly, because Rose was usually nearby. This physical fact made it impossible to schedule an employment interview. When I first went to social services in December 2009 I presented as so stricken that my intake worker, who saw me on a Friday, made a follow-up appointment for Monday morning, so she could make sure I got all the services I needed without delay.

When I saw her on Monday she was in the first stages of a cold, sneezing into tissues, and clearly miserable. Rose, and I had rattled over to Eureka from Arcata in a borrowed car. Rose was wrapped in a blanket, still in her pajamas. We were temporarily lodged in a friend’s guest room. I had enrolled her in school, but we hadn’t recovered enough from fleeing Massachusetts to be separated. She was 8.

But I was amazed by my worker, who had a masters degree in social work, wore nice clothes and a nice wedding ring, and had forced herself to get up, shower and dress normally and go through the usual weekday routines. I asked her why and she said, “I didn’t want to miss this appointment.”

This government worker knew I would benefit from her dragging herself out of bed, when she would have justified calling in sick, and should not have exposed others to her germs. But she chose to help me because she knew I was barely hanging on. She had the latitude to take that risk.

Now, civilization enters free fall, my parenting responsibilities have ended. Thanks to being sheltered and supported by kind people and temporary social security disability payments I’ve been able to recover some physical strength through regular training and a number of other routines and supportive measures.

I have some advice for people who are afraid right now.

The only way to meet fear is with bravery. Use your times of calm to rest and strategize and don’t be afraid to love and trust — these abilities will decide the quality of your future. Decisions made from a basis of love and trust will always work out in the end.

Use your play for instructional purposes and learn some life crafts that don’t require electricity.

Support local farms, invest locally, even if it is just your labor you have to offer. Plant seeds and be confident they will grow with your protection and nurturance.

The human immune system thrives on love and communion. We occupy the same physical, mental, emotional, and spiritual territory as many other beings and we are meant to cooperate with others for mutual benefit, not posture as power brokers to show who’s boss.

Stand up to bullies. Do not allow your vote to be suppressed or stolen. Your vote was earned by millions of canaries. Do not waste their sacrifice.

Get your primary news from a reputable source. Connect with your neighbors via telephone trees or semaphore to share news and promote safety.

The meek shall inherit the earth, which means if you’re modest about your goals, and service oriented toward others, your work will bear the most nutritious fruit humankind can offer to the planet, our animal friends, and each other.

 

 

Radio Silence

Yesterday was Dave’s 50th birthday.

I went to a birthday party, for a friend’s 5-year-old. On a budget, I bought a kick board and a pair of goggles, arriving late at the bounce shack inside the mall, but still in time for a pink-frosted cupcake with raspberry filling and a fresh raspberry on top.

I talked to our son the night before, about serious and not-so-serious things, ending the conversation, as usual, with baseball. There wasn’t much to celebrate, since the Sox got creamed in their last game, by Toronto or Baltimore, I forget which.

After writing a letter to our daughter at camp, I took Lucky out to the park next to my sublet, and I started shagging some balls for this guy who was hitting softball-size, hard-plastic globes, with circles as the lattice pattern, into the grassy field.  They were very light and I could not throw them easily at first, but I got the hang of it, and the man seemed to appreciate not having to shag his balls. But Lucky got bored so I left before I was ready to leave.

Sometimes I think I’m part dog. I love to shag balls, jump in water, shake all over dry people, tramp all over their picnic blankets with my muddy paws, and sniff their food.

But I am only allowed to shag balls.

Speaking of baseball, last November I bought a baseball tarot set of cards from the thrift store across from Friends Market in Orleans, Massachusetts. It was arranged within a Red Sox display featuring some expensive items, but also a few things I could afford, like some Red Sox/MLB pillow cases for Sam and an authentic Pawtucket Red Sox commemorative baseball with 108 authentic stitches.

I haven’t played with the baseball tarot deck yet, as I’m still appreciating the very idea of it, and gobsmacked that some person or persons brought this idea to fruition.

Something more to savor is the fact that the author(s) of this work are at least part-Jungian, something I learned from glancing at the bibliography.

Significantly, there is no mention in the contents section of a “pinch-hitter,” and I think this designation must go to the reader of the cards. In life, it does seem like I do nothing but pinch hit, so for me this deck is a winner on that score alone.

ED Denson (Don’t Get Trouble On Your Mind; KMUD 88.1 FM Eureka-Arcata) is going to be out of town on a mandatory lawyer training this Saturday, so I’m subbing for him from 10 a.m. to 12 noon. Perhaps I will be throwing Learning Curve balls and convening the Church of the Subtle for a stretch. *

Recently I came across a CD of a tribute show Salamander (The Fringe Area) and I did after Daveau Witherspoon died suddenly in a car crash in January 2006, three months before his 56th birthday.

Daveau was a KMUD and Mateel king-volunteer who adopted Dave and me and our kids while we lived in Redway, while both of us were severely overworked and underpaid.

Daveau’s death drastically changed numerous lives in the county because he helped a lot of people get by, with loans, or labor, or a useful piece of equipment, or a place to live. Back then in Southern Humboldt, you had to grow weed to survive, and since we were unprepared for that venture, we were not making ends meet.

So Daveau built us a greenhouse from scavenged boughs and plastic, brought over several robust females and put them in half-barrels, with expensive soil, then harvested them several months later and bought the harvest from us.

Dave was one of the call-in guests for Daveau’s tribute show. Salamander encouraged lots of callers to play strange instruments, so Dave played the thumb piano I bought at Disneyland in 1989.

I remember coming home from the show and Dave asking me what I thought of his call. It was a bizarre moment, because I had enjoyed his call but I didn’t know it was him, even though he didn’t try to disguise his voice.

So that was strange. It’s clearly him on the recording. I don’t know how my ears didn’t recognize him or my thumb piano, but maybe because I was running back and forth to the library filling requests, and didn’t hear much of his input.

They say Judy Garland could sing the telephone book and bring the house down. Dave could do or say anything on the radio and it would be perfect.

Once in awhile, when I can stand it, I listen to the commercials he recorded at his last job at Ocean 104.7 (“Custom Crafted for the Cape”). They are so funny just thinking of them makes me laugh. If ever a man was made for a medium, it was Dave for radio.

I get anniversary grief and I know this because I’ve had crummy rotten days for no reason until I remember it’s the anniversary of someone’s death, or another horrible event.

Before the birthday party at the bounce shack, I took a bath, and then I started to play one of Dave’s guitars — the one I didn’t break — which I keep at standard tuning.**

I played a few of Dave’s songs, then played along with a couple of his recordings on Bandcamp, singing my part. Then I realized I was crying and kissing the guitar, and still naked and damp from the bath, so I toweled off my hair, got dressed and left, stopping briefly at Big 5 Sporting Goods for a water-themed gift.

I met Mark for an early dinner at the Vietnamese place, and I gave him a shirt both he and Dave would like, procured from a recent job. It was a dark-green lightweight, tight-knit, cotton hoodie, just-washed and line-dried, with a label that said “arrogant English,” or something similar sewn on the inside collar.

“Happy Birthday Dave,” Mark said when I told him what day it was. Mark also turned 50 earlier this month, which was why I gave him a gift.

In our Humboldt years we celebrated their birthdays together, often with a camping trip — to the Trinity River, the Eel at Richardson Grove, Russian Lake in the Trinity Alps — and these were peak times for our young families.

Today I saw Dave’s half-brother John, carrying boxes to his car in the Co-op parking lot. I didn’t ask if he was moving, just smiled and waved. “Yoda” by Weird Al was playing on my car stereo and the windows were down.

I parked and ran over to him, giving him a hug. “I know why I saw you,” I said. “Yesterday was Dave’s birthday. He would have been 50.”

This seemed to register as news to John, who likes to be called “Johnny” these days.

I used to call him Johnny all the time, because Dave did, often with a thick Boston accent. Now, however, I prefer “John.”

Happy Birthday Babe. You still register with me.

*Dave’s radio shows on KMUD and WOMR were “The Church of the Subtle” and “The Learning Curve.”

**Steve Morgan repaired the broken Yamaha and I keep it tuned down a whole step.

Congratulations in order

Yesterday I went to my son’s college graduation in Needham, Massachusetts. Except for my wedding ceremony, I’ve haven’t attended any ceremony where I savored each moment, each syllable of every speech and note of music, laughter and chatter.

There was an air of pride but also humility, because of the very great effort and cost that it took to educate each one of these graduates — over half of whom were women — and there was humor, which came easily to giddy graduates and their over-the-moon, elated parents.

A brass band from Boston played “Shenandoah” after the keynote speech, to get everybody in the right mood for the receiving of the diplomas. It was an astute choice– I was in tears immediately.

I knew through Sam that Olin is a great school, but this commencement drove that fact home. They really want their graduates to be helpful, conscientious citizens of the planet, diplomats for data, catalysts for conscientious evolution.

Of the Resurrection

Rose and I were scheduled for a swim at daybreak. We decided to go someplace closer than Trinidad, so we could sleep longer.  We drove out to the Samoa dunes and waited for Debbie and Leah.

Rose was in first. I heard her squeal as she got in the cold water. I was still undressing at the car so flung the rest of my clothes inside the trunk and ran into the surf. Brave Debbie wasted no time in getting in, and out, as she did not trust the waves. They were uneven and the tide was going out. Last year at Indian Beach where the waves are gentler, she stayed in a long time.

I pulled out my secret weapon, the scream! It helps to scream when you’re getting in cold water. It makes me laugh.

I followed the three-dunk rule, which means you can’t get out until your head has gone under the water at least three times. The waves were not crunchy. They broke perfectly, making it easy to body surf. I caught two good rides and missed a couple, and it was a lot of fun floating on my back with my feet poking out of the rolling waves waiting for a good ride.

Once out, I got back in for one last dunk, and was the last one dressed. Debbie handed Rose her phone to take a group selfie to post on Dave’s FB page showing that she was swimming naked at daybreak on her 18th birthday.

Rose started the tradition on her first birthday after he died, her 16th. As Dave’s family, friends, and fans know, he died while swimming naked.

I’m proud of Rose for honoring him this way, impressed that she has so much of his boldness, and can grasp new realities with lightning speed and sing like an angel, as he did.

Two days after that Fathers Day when he was found on Lieutenant Island, Sam, Rose and I slept in the same upstairs bedroom in Dennis. I woke up suddenly the next morning from dreaming Dave was there. He was young and beautiful, and I was ecstatic to see him, but his look stopped me from jumping under the blanket with him because he was worried about Rose.

He seemed to have put a lot of effort into appearing in my dream. He hadn’t meant to die, but now that Rose had to cope with his death, he was asking me to help her.

Even though his hostilities diminished me in all areas of my life the fact that the kids would never see him again was the worst fact of all.

Leading up to his death I had several dreams about him accompanied by a feeling that he would end hostilities soon.  I thought it would be an earthly transformation. Perhaps a change of location or job. Now that I knew what the dreams portended, it seemed like he was encouraging me from the other side.

Decades ago, we named our band The Church of the Subtle because we wanted to demonstrate how much we appreciated subtlety. Housing our brand under a church roof seemed a good way to cultivate and share it with others, especially our kids.

Happy Birthday Rose. We love you.

Darth Daver

Two nights ago I dreamed I was with Dave. We were wonderfully together, in a way we’d never been when he was alive, not even at the beginning, when we were surfing the same fate. In my dream we were friends, the friends we said we longed to be to each other.

I knew he was a split personality, or rather a double-personality. He wanted to be a consciously evolve, but there was always someone he wasn’t getting along with in his life. For nearly 14 years I listened to him complain about others, and then he started complaining to others about me.

Little by little I excavate the life we had together by listening to the radio shows and other stuff on cassette tapes, CDs and sound files. I didn’t just admire him musically, he was pure nourishment. He wrote all kinds of songs I couldn’t grasp, but I have time for them now. Dave might have been bigger intellectually, emotionally, physically, and energetically and his vision might have been infinitely more vast, but spot-on intuition was jammed up by his ego.

He wanted to be known. He wanted to be perceived. He wanted to be accepted. He was afraid of his darker side and couldn’t control it. If another person could accept him, he reasoned, he could accept himself. Like a lot of people, he had it backwards.

So now, I’m forced to accept Dave’s hold on my imagination. I have to accept him on his terms too.

Dave’s not here, and there’s nothing I can do about it.

His music defined my feelings for him. The fact that he was so great looking, strong, hilarious, energetic, made him a great companion, but it was the sounds he made — his resonance — that anchored me to him.

I wish everyone was in a position to treasure the healing power of music.

Musically, Dave remained honest. He left a large body of work that has been sustaining me since he died.

I called him Darth Daver because he was evil to me. He behaved in ways that was detrimental to my health and safety. He tried to blackmail me. He defamed me, stole my physical and psychological soundness, my security and hope for the future.

At any rate, it’s up to me to forgive him and bring him back into my heart. Yesterday I found a note to myself from 2010. I’d copied something written by an 8 or 9 year old: “My parents don’t live together anymore, but in my heart they do.”

I want my kids to be able to say that.

Barista Blues

Yesterday I ordered a cup of coffee in Redway and I asked for room for cream. The individual behind the counter gave me a cup of coffee with no room for cream, so I asked her to please pour some coffee out so I could put some cream in. I didn’t feel like dumping the extra coffee in the used-spoon container at the end of the counter.

The young woman directed me, without a smile, making full eye contact, “Next time, ask for EXTRA room for cream.”

This morning I asked for a croissant in Eureka, and the individual behind the counter picked it up with his bare hand, stuffed it into a pastry bag and handed it to me.

I could have ignored these two errors, but I know how to serve coffee and croissant, which incidentally, is Jean Luc Picard’s favorite breakfast (season 7, episode 8: “Attached”; Star Trek, TNG).

First off, I believe in conserving paper, so using a new pick-up tissue every time one serves a pastry over the counter, is wasteful. When I serve coffee and croissants, I wash my hands continually throughout the shift, but the customer cannot know how clean my hands are, so I use a pick-up tissue, which is standard practice in the industry.

When I challenged the individual handing me the croissant, asking him why he didn’t use a pick-up tissue, he explained that his hands were clean. I believed him, but I don’t accept the explanation. If the goal was to not use paper, tongs can be used. In this case, because the croissant was so gloriously large, he couldn’t have used tongs for fear of smashing the croissant in some way as he struggled to get it inside the bag. Tongs are unwieldy with a tight fit like that, so the bag should have been larger, the smallest bag with the folded bottom instead of the two-panel pastry bag.

With croissants you can re-use pick-up tissues plenty of times before discarding. As long as you keep the tissue hidden from view and you use the same side — easy to discern, as the crumple forms a point — you can pick up at least 10 croissants without discarding. I use the number 10 because I’m sure I can get at least 10 uses out of a pick-up tissue, although I’ve never thought of performing that experiment, and that is because I’ve never seen anybody deliver a croissant to me over the counter without using tongs or a pick-up tissue.

I said this to the man giving me the croissant this morning. that I had never seen anybody use their bare hands serving a morning pastry. I even began citing my experience, to explain my astonishment, but stopped because I knew I was wasting my breath on these kids behind the counter. Conserving paper is desirable, and the kid said his hands were clean. Why shouldn’t I believe him. My hands were always clean when I worked behind the counter.

Messy pastries, like fruit-filled or cream cheese danish use more pick-up tissues. You can get two or three, possibly four uses out of one pick-up tissue. This is because they bend easily and leak. Again, if the treat is not made outsized, you can use tongs to avoid excess use of paper and slide it into a two-panel pastry bag.

More fastidious establishments force employees to use plastic gloves to handle this type of food, and that is a real nuisance, because this type of work demands constant wiping up of spills, smears and crumbs, and that means using a towel moistened with water, and that means getting your hands wet in the wink. I washed my hands continually throughout my shift.

Wrist-length plastic gloves of this type have to be discarded each time one uses the sink to wash out the towel — a constant activity — because they are short, flimsy, and not waterproof. If you are operating the espresso machine and serving pastries, you’ll get pastry smears all over the machine if you keep the gloves on, and you can’t go back to serving pastry with the same gloves that have touched other surfaces besides product. So, the gloves are utterly wasteful, unless your sole job is to place pastries in pastry bags, and the wiping and everything else is done by others.

In Redway yesterday, when I was told to request extra room for cream next time, I challenged the server. Unlike this morning, when there were other employees and customers present, there were only two people in the room, so I felt I could have an uncomplicated interaction. I explained that she hadn’t left me any room for cream at all, having filled my coffee to one-third of an inch from the top. In my view, she had filled the cup completely.

No server fills a cup of coffee to the brim because it’s hot, and you need a little room to accommodate the customer potentially suffering a scald. Perhaps the customer wants to avoid using a lid, as I usually do. In any case, my cup of coffee yesterday did not have room for cream in any practicable sense.

Further, when I asked her to pour some coffee out so that I could have room for cream, per my initial request, the server corrected me, and told me to ask for extra cream next time. This made no logical sense. Room for cream means that if you add any amount of cream to the coffee, it should not overflow, and one should not face an unreasonable risk of scalding. Room for cream means you should leave a reasonable amount of space in the cup to add a reasonable amount of cream without having the beverage reach capacity, so as to avoid a spill and potentially an injury.

It is up to the server to check in with the customer, if s/he has time, as to how much room the customer wants. If the server has a long line and doesn’t have time to check in with the customer, s/he must leave a reasonable amount of room for cream, and that means at least an inch from the top of a 12-ounce cup, the size I ordered.

We got into an argument. I told her she shouldn’t be correcting me as I couldn’t possibly know “room for cream” meant “extra room for cream” in her universe. Further, I’d been to this establishment countless times, had a frequent-customer account and some credit in the cash register, and had been served by this individual at least a dozen times before she sprang the “extra” business on me. She delivered her imperative in an imperious way too, as if I had been impudent in asking her to pour out some coffee. She said I was ruining her day, and told me to “chill out.”

I unthinkingly tipped her a dollar during our argument, and her attitude immediately changed. She softened and became reasonable. I didn’t tip her a dollar to get her to stop bullying me but out of habit. If you order just coffee, you give them the change, unless it’s under fifty cents, then you either fish around on your person for more change, or give them a dollar from your change. Baristas can tell from the sound of the coins dropping into the basket, bucket or jar how much it is, whether the change contains one quarter or two, or if it’s small change.

If you sneak a dollar in when they’re not looking, they can usually tell if you tipped them from comparing the look of the jar from the last time they looked, typically just before they served you.

It used to annoy me when customers waited until I was looking to drop the dollar in, but now, as a customer, I realize they wanted their gift to be detected, if not acknowledged. They wanted me to know they appreciated my service. They did not seek acknowledgement for being generous.

I tip even though when service is bad, out of habit. It wasn’t until I left, returning her apology (one apology deserves another in these situations), that I realized she had relented as soon as I tipped her in the middle of our argument.

She may have realized she was serving a customer who doesn’t tip in exchange for good service, but out of reflexive empathy.

Above I described interactions at small businesses, but, being on the road a lot means patronizing Starbucks. I used to like Starbucks because they had uniform product standards. If I ordered a wet cappuccino, I would get a well-frothed quantity of foam on an espresso, and usually enough milk to suffice no matter where I went. I could always pester the barista for a little bit extra if she wasn’t too busy, since there was hot milk left in the pitcher used to make my cappuccino foam.

I’m an Americano gal these days, a much simpler drink. You pull a double shot of espresso (short hopefully) and put some water in it, preferably from the espresso machine, leaving room for cream if desired. You’re done. No foaming of milk and waiting for it to separate. No fancy patterns on top, no deliberating on how much milk to add.

Yet, I have yet to receive a satisfactory Americano (on the first try) in any Starbucks. Especially Cloverdale. It’s funny now, but for awhile I was truly annoyed that, no matter how clearly and pleasantly I asked, even watching the cashier draw a line on the cup indicating how much room was to be left, I could never get an Americano at the Starbucks in Cloverdale that didn’t look and smell like Folgers or Maxwell House, and dismayingly filled to the Brim. I always sent it back, waited forever, endured the resentment, and tipped.

Last Friday, in McKinleyville, the same thing happened. I know, there’s no excuse to patronize a Starbucks so close to home, but this was in the name of research. Not only did the baristo not leave room for cream, he poured some of it out and offered it to me again. No, I said, you have to pull another double shot. I was extremely grateful he didn’t give me a hard time, and we wished each other a good weekend and a Happy New Year.

In the 80s and 90s when I was young and serving coffee in San Francisco I was grateful for kind customers, but even when they were not kind, I treated them with kindness. There were lots of rude customers, bankers and of course lawyers, who treated you like garbage because they couldn’t unload on anybody else.

When I worked across the street from the TransAmerica Pyramid the clientele had a higher percentage of lawyers and hence was more rude than the crowd that queued outside the Bank of America building on Market at Van Ness. I made it a game to be polite and pleasant even in the face of rudeness, to see if they would relent eventually, and start looking forward to their interactions with me. This usually worked, but there were some hard cases, always attorneys. (You can tell an attorney by the ministerial way they dress. Ministers, on the other hand, dress like advocates).

In 2015 I worked in a place that was easily as busy as downtown San Francisco in the 90s: PB Boulangerie & Bistro in Wellfleet, Massachusetts.

Finally, a good bakery that far down Cape! Finally a decent cup of coffee between Provincetown and Orleans (a distance of nearly 30 miles)! I patronized the place for a few years before asking for a job, during the busiest season, summer. I was nervous that I might not be able to keep up but elated to discover my rhythm was intact and I picked speed easily, within a day or two. Plus most of the workers spoke French, which is music to my ears.

Anyway, I brew my own coffee usually, using recycled coffee cups from my forays into the retail business, since I don’t have a kitchen cabinet for coffee mugs. I was evicted from my home in Arcata because I kept a modest supply of medical cannabis. My medicine was discovered by a male maintenance worker snooping in a room he had no permission to be in, and he vastly exaggerated the amount he saw, attempting to paint me as a dealer. The landlord, Humboldt Housing, defended him to the hilt, and is now seeking $55,000 from me in “damages.”

A constant traveler now, using portable equipment and portable skills, I make better coffee than any establishment using a stainless steel French press ( a gift) and Bird of Paradise blend from the NorthCoast Co-op, where one can also find 16% fat half-and-half, richer than standard half-and-half, but less rich than pure cream. These two elements make the perfect cup of coffee.