I was talking to someone tonight, and she wrote me that she’d laughed at my “Oh honey. You betcha,” telling me my roots were showing–that nobody native to the West Coast talks like that.

Oh honey. You betcha I’m from Maryland.

I mentioned to her the story of a few years back of some uptight Yankee twit who’d charged the sweet old black lady in the U.S. Senate’s lunchroom with sexual harassment: she was always saying, Thank you, honey, or, See you later, sugar.  He thought she was coming on to him.

As if.

What I didn’t mention was the reason that news story had stuck in my craw so, aside from the obvious cultural disconnect and self-centeredness of the man. It was a little more personal than that.

And so after puttering around with the strawberries in the kitchen for awhile, I thought I’d come back to the computer and explain exactly why that was so.  I want the grandkids, whom I grew up with, of the man I’m about to write about, and then their future grandkids to know what he did. I imagine it’s a story they haven’t heard.

My grandmother was the wife of a US Senator who served for 24 years.  When she arrived in DC, as she later wrote in her autobiography, “Here we were told in no uncertain terms what was required of all wives of new members of Congress.  Calling requirements had been modified, it was true; but we were expected, once a year, to leave cards at the White House, and at the homes of the Vice President, The Speaker of the House, members of the Cabinet and Supreme Court, the chairmen of our husband’s committees, and all members of our state delegations whose husbands outranked our husbands. Still quite a list!” as compared to the days when new House wives had to visit every ranking House member’s home.  There were still strict requirements as to how many cards to leave vs. how many women were in the household, how and under what circumstances to carefully fold the edge of the card down properly…  Arriving by horse and buggy was no longer required, at least, but it was a near thing.

Living in a place where segregation was the law of the land and casually expected was a shock to my western-born grandmother.

As Grampa grew in seniority and rank over the years (and defied ranking members of his party and voted for the Civil Rights Voting Act–hard to believe now how fiercely he was blasted for it, but he was very proud of that vote), Gram eventually became president of the Congressional Wives Club.

And then came the day this story is about.  There was a big to-do held in the Senate lunchroom honoring various people, and when it was over, Gram (protocol, shmotocol) went back into the kitchen to thank the chef for pulling out all the stops.  The food, the presentation–everything had been just exquisite.

While they were chatting, somehow Gram happened to mention that J. Willard Marriott had been there.  The founder of the chain that bears his last name.

The chef was upset.  “Why didn’t anybody tell me J. Willard was here!?” she exclaimed indignantly.  “These congressmen. They all think they’re such hotshots.  J. Willard!  If only I’d known!  I would REALLY have put on a show!”

Then she proceeded to tell my grandmother that as a young woman she’d been suddenly deserted by her husband, left with a small child and no income and no skills and basically thrown out on the street.  (How literally, I’m not sure.)  J. Willard Marriott had randomly encountered her one day and hadn’t cared what color or accent she came with; moved by her plight, he offered her both a job and the training for it.   He had personally taken great care of her, just a random woman out there on a random day, and had helped her back on her feet and had gotten her established in her new career–and look where she was now!

“Oh, Mrs. Bennett, if only I’d known!”

And if only he’d known it was her, he would have been back there too, throwing his arms around her and rejoicing in her hard work and success.

A side note–welcome home, Don! And a huge thank you to Robin, an old friend who surprised me today when my mail came with a box from my Bethesda hometown: with lanolin-based soap and four handknit dishcloths.  Wow.  Cool.  My kitchen just got greener–no more paper towels wiping the counters off.  Thank you, Robin!

I stepped outside this morning to water my tomato plants and, coming back across the porch, suddenly caught movement next to me. I peered carefully around the birdfeeder just as the chickadee peered around from the other side to make sure the coast was clear–and there we were, eye to eye, standing still, about a foot away from each other.  Wow.  And then it zipped away.

As Michelle put it, “Now you have pets! And you don’t even have to clean up after them!”

Meantime, after dinner last night, I drove back down to San Jose and met up with the garage band; there was a goodly crowd and introductions were made all around and names put to emails.  I gave Eric first choice of Margo Lynn’s fingerless gloves, and he allowed as how they would be just the thing, that his hands do indeed get cold during some of his wildlife photo shoots. Noro for him, Margo Lynn, and in the pair he picked out for Craig, who wasn’t there but usually is–I didn’t know if I’d be able to get back down there, and Eric offered to pass them along for me. He told me to mail Glenn’s to Santa Cruz, that Glenn was caring for the lone survivor of the San Francisco nest and it had a broken clavicle.  It seemed to be healing nicely, but it did tend to tie Glenn down there.

Eric showed me one of his photos of two falcons midair, one with prey, the other facing the camera and squawking. I looked at it and laughed, “Aak! Don’t look at me! I’m having a bad feather day!”

A few minutes later (maybe I missed hearing something the first time? Certainly not a rare thing to have happen) Eric showed me another large picture.  There’s a more cropped version of it here. He said the hummingbird was actually defending its nest Clara had gotten a bit too close to.

I loved both Clara’s calmness and the spunk of the little thing, not to mention the photography. Then when I tried to give the picture back, Eric said, “No–this one’s for you.”

My jaw hit the ground.  Gobsmacked.  It was signed and dated, too, on the front, with a description on the back of just which falcon where when–it’s a collector’s item. As a matter of fact, there was a fundraising auction that had just ended that had included a copy of that photo, which with all my recent medical bills I couldn’t afford to consider but had quietly wanted to.

And here this was in my hands.  As a gift.  Wow.  I must say I instantly pictured the biblical King Soloman ripping the photo in half and mailing half to Margo Lynn to be perfectly fair–she’d knitted his gloves, not me.

Saying that I knit those five lace scarves sounds like a rationalization, but I’m really going to enjoy that photo. (Margo Lynn, forgive me?)

A quick note first: I got a call from Don today from the emergency room; he’d broken three bones in his foot.  Ouch!  I’m wishing healing his way.

After I posted yesterday, a new bird showed up. Bonus points to anybody who whistles the song the post title comes from (sorry about the earworming).  I was stunned–in 22 years in California, I have never once seen a chickadee. Anywhere.  Ever.  I assumed they simply didn’t live here.

But there one was, right there on my feeder, testifying to the fact that in life if you want something to happen, sometimes you have to create the opportunities by which it can.

Speaking of which.  Last night my husband was still at work due to deadlines and international time zone issues, while Michelle, who’d planned to take his car, was off having dinner with friends.  Marian and I were about to head out to San Jose City Hall for her to get to see the falcons and meet the folks I’d be giving Margo Lynn’s fingerless gloves to when it suddenly dawned on us that, oh, wait.  What’s wrong with this picture.

And we cracked up at the same moment.  No car!  (Duh…)

While I was typing this, a female ladderback woodpecker looking like this one showed up on my olive tree. It wasn’t interested in the feeder; I guess it simply felt welcomed by the presence of the seven finches and titmice on the feeder.  It was gorgeous and big and I hadn’t seen one of those since we’d had to cut down the ash trees.  Wow.  All I had to do was welcome its neighbors and it felt right at home too.  I wonder what will show up next!

Before Marian’s flight this afternoon, we did get down to San Jose after all, but there were no falcons soaring in sight at that time of day.  We toured the textile museum–and if you can, GO! The Jack’s Falling Water Quilt is worth the trip all by itself.  For anybody who’s ever been to Watkins Glen in upstate New York, picture a rocky waterfall like that one transfigured into a watercolored quilt with cascades of blue dropletted silk falling around the picture, dappled leaves above the falls, the movement of the water in the pool below and a deep green strip that you almost don’t see at first but then notice as it gives depth and life and summer to the water .

I so wish I could create something like that.  And this Friday admission is free. Go!

Meantime, Don, get better! Your homebirds are waiting for you.

A pair of house finches discovered my birdfeeder last week. And now, at last, the birdword is out.  It’s a grand party, with five often on the feeder at a time and one on the branch impatiently waiting its turn.  Squirrels have been on the ground (they seem to have realized that trying to land on the feeder directly is a kamikaze experience) busily playing mop-up crew, taking turns with the jays and the occasional graceful mourning dove that walks in delicate steps among the spilled seeds.

News flash (an hour after typing the above):  I just got my mail, and there was a surprise package.

Marian and I had already decided that for her last evening here tonight, we had to take her to go see the peregrines flying around City Hall in San Jose.

It turns out my friend Margo Lynn had listened to my wishing out loud that I had something other than lace scarves to hand out to the group of falcon watchers–maybe something to keep their hands warm in the cool brisk evening air, something the men too could enjoy.  I was thinking for Eric, who takes and shares so many of his photos, (there are some new ones up) and Craig, who writes up beautiful reports and lately has even showed up at 4:30 am to observe the falcons’ dawn risings.  For Glenn, the biologist at UCSC who has been caring for these birds for thirty years and has played an integral part in bringing them back from near-extinction.

Margo Lynn knitted four pairs of fingerless gloves for me to go share.  (Those three will know better than I who most deserves the fourth pair.)  It was a total surprise. They’re gorgeous. Three pairs are Noro Kureyon or Kureyo Patora, one is a Berocco superfine merino: they’ll all be nice and warm, without getting in the way of one’s fingers nor one’s dexterity while holding a camera. Perfect.

I dearly hope they will be as gobsmacked as I am.  Wow.  Thank you, Margo Lynn!

Making reservations online, stopping a moment to go, what’s today’s date–oh, wait, *duh*…

Conversation at dinner: Marian was talking about when they first bought their house in the Seattle area.

She stepped outside one evening and encountered a neighbor standing by his curb staring to the southeast. Had she heard?  Had she seen this?

Heard what?

Uh, about Mt. St. Helens? You know, the volcano?

The what?!  So Marian looked over thataway and you could see the plume in the distance.  Whoa.  She’d had no idea there was anything other than Mt Rainier, which she could see, anywhere nearby. There was a fine layer of ash on everything the next morning.

Richard buried his head in his hands in mock dismay over his dinner, teasing us: “One sister who can’t hear the fire alarm” (no hearing aids in, the building being evacuated, and me totally oblivious on the day he was referring to) “and one sister who doesn’t know there’s a volcano in the neighborhood,” shaking his head.

I guess she hadn’t heard hers go off either.

Sisters.  Whaddyagonnado.

…And I need me a good bird book.

A little more water on those tomatoes.

That plum tree is going to be so hosed, no doubt about it.

And I still need a goofy picture of Marian. Shouldn’t be hard.

(Note added an hour later to draft: write it and it shall happen…)

Knitpicks has “Wrapped in Comfort” on sale at $14.97 at the moment.  I’m not very good at pushing the commercial side of things, but I am pretty proud of that book, so I thought I’d mention. Thanks!

I told my son John about that plum sauce and A.’s visit, and he emailed back, Please leave me some? I’ll be home in December!

He’s been on his mission for the Mormon Church for 18 months now.  Homemade plum sauce for winter sounded t0 me like a marvelous way to anticipate and then celebrate the day he comes home.  So there is now a container in the freezer marked for the occasion to come: memories, neighbors, family, fruit tree history, it’s all in that Rubbermaid, waiting and ready for him.

I just put a container of plum sauce in my fridge.  My next-door neighbor knocked on our door earlier today with a large bowl full of plums from her tree. It was aging, she told me, and not producing as many as it used to, but she knew I loved to make jam from it and there was more than they could use.

When we bought this house, Fred had been the gardener here for many years and we were asked if we might keep him on. We couldn’t afford a single extra thing, I told the sellers honestly–but what I didn’t say was, even if we could and did, then it would feel to me like it was more his yard than mine at a time I was trying to adjust my brain to feeling that this really was our place now and that the house we’d built in New Hampshire was not anymore.  Moving is hard enough.

Fred had really gotten into the art of grafting at one point in his life when a client had asked him to help them move part of their favorite fruit tree to one at their new home.  It worked! Cool!  From there, he grafted a few other things–and from what I understand, he didn’t always ask first.  Since he also worked for our next-door neighbors and they had a plum tree, the ornamental plum in our yard could use a little spiffing up.  After all: he needed to trim the plum over there, and the elderly Japanese couple living here didn’t need a whole tree’s worth of fruit to worry about, so, hey!  The solution!

I don’t think they knew it was coming.  But that is how the ornamental plum with deep burgundy leaves in what later became our back yard had one large green branch off to the side that was loaded with fruit. Just enough.

I have to tell you, it was one really odd-looking tree.

It’s even odder looking now, the trunk distorted and lumpy; the producing branch, which lasted while our kids were little, died off quite awhile ago.

So my kids planted me my own plum tree for Mother’s Day last year, as I’ve mentioned, and I absolutely love it.

But having A. knock on the door with plums from her tree, the one Fred had lifted a branch from for our house so very many years ago, brought back many pleasant memories of a gentle soul.  I did get to know him over time by his working at A.’s house for our first ten or so years here, while his health held.

There’s the memory of the time I waved hi at him when I saw him trimming our olive from across the fence–it had gotten pretty overgrown at top and had gone from being carefully bonsai’d to looking like the branches had mohawks, and it bugged him.  I was grateful; he was embarrassed at being caught.  He was a sweetie.

I do miss him.  Maybe someday I’ll learn how to graft in a different variety plum onto my Santa Rosa to extend its season in his honor.  Or an apricot.  Jester trees are the way to go.

You know how when you point a camera at a kid they give you a goofy face?  All I had to do was tell Marian I was going to take her picture and she gave me a goofy face. And I missed it.

The plumber agreed to come tomorrow, having an all-day job today–which he then finished early, called, rushed over, and rescued us.  Yay!

And life is good.

Really, it’s all just a matter of coming Bach to basics.  You know, like the garlic ice cream they sell in Gilroy.

In the Happy Father’s Day department, one will note that I seem not to have been the only one with the idea: there was only one left in the whole store Friday.  I snatched it.  Mine.  And then, briefly, his. (He let me taste some, but the thing disappeared surprisingly fast when I walked back out of the room.)

For the man who lived in France for two years on a mission for the Mormon Church, came home, and taught me what True Chocolate was supposed to be like, lifting me from my Hershey wilderness into true European dark bliss.  And now you know why I really married him. Heh.

Vosge’s Haut.Chocolat to celebrate the day.  What could be more manly than an applewood-smoked bacon chocolate bar?

Our neighbor across the fence once asked me if we’d lived in this neighborhood in ‘55 when…

And I told her I hadn’t been born yet in ‘55, much to her chagrin, judging by her reaction; my hair was grayer than hers, and I guess she’d just assumed…

But our house was.  Which is why today after I’d bleached and cleaned all three bathrooms (we added the third to keep our then-about-to-be-teenagers from killing each other) yet again after the second go-round on the plumbing we thought we’d finally fixed, I was not entirely Little Miss Sunshine today when the shower pans announced yet a third time that they really really needed a Zofran equivalent in their system.

I have my sister flying in from Washington State on Monday afternoon. We were going to wash the already-clean linens on the guest room bed, just to make sure they weren’t dusty.  Right now I would settle for being able to tell her she can use the bathrooms safely.

I will have a plane to meet.

And a plumber who should be making good on his short-term warranty, who came out last month, who doesn’t work weekends, and I’m too cheap to call someone else and we’re still trying to fix it ourselves.  It keeps starting to be okay and then–not.  So someone has to be home to meet the plumber Monday, assuming we’re still at it, and at round three, I think the squirrels are slapping their thighs and telling human jokes on us.  (They lost rounds two and three on the birdfeeder so far and could use the comic relief in the face of their dire deprivation.)

Happy almost-Father’s Day!  (Toilet snakes are a manly art.  No, no, I insist, Dear, go right ahead.)

(Edited to add:  So I did what any reasonable knitter would do: I blocked the seacell/silk shawl on that guest bed while I still could, keeping the rinsing water in the sink to the most minimum possible in doing so.)

(Falcon photos owned by SCPBRG.  I love the kids-home-from-college-together shot.)

Karin’s yarn: I love how the darker/lighter patterns match the fledgling’s. In adulthood, the stripes effect on the juveniles will change from going up and down to side to side with the chest going white.

You know you’ve really been caught up in this whole peregrine thing when you pull up behind a car at a red light and read the nameplate on its back as saying it’s a Toyota Tiercel.  Well, and it was little, too, and the males are smaller!

I’ve been debating writing this all day.  It would be far more fun to talk about how cool Karin’s yarn is starting to look in my new project. And I do try not to go on and on on such things.

But I think this is compelling, and I think it’s terribly important. I read this article today, thanks to Lene: about the executives at the nation’s major health insurers admitting Tuesday before incredulous members of Congress of both parties that yes, it is true: there is a list of about 1,000 expensive medical conditions which, if you have, and if you have private coverage (ie, you’re not protected by the laws governing HMOs about pre-existing conditions) they will scour your medical records as far back as 20 years looking for a reason to drop you. Something, anything, you didn’t disclose on your application.  And they will find one.  Some have whole departments set up for this and give bonuses and positive performance reviews to their employees who drop expensive patients.

One person’s doctor had once noted that he had gallstones but didn’t mention it to his patient. When the guy later found out he had cancer, his insurer canceled him for fraud for not disclosing what he didn’t know.

This was not an isolated case; this is simply how they conduct their business and they freely said so. They told the congressmen that it had saved them $300 million over five years.

I recommend that these lovely individuals put a Bob Marley cd on and go read Charles Dickens: “Business? Business! MANKIND was my business!”

Note that in California the insurance commissioner proposed fining one of the Blue Cross companies $12.6 million. And then did not do so.

There is a case underway, finally, in which the insurance company did not notify a couple they were considering them for rescission during the period during which the wife could have switched their insurance to her employer’s; then, after her husband was in a car accident, which, as I read the article, the company apparently knew about, they continued to collect premiums from them.

Until the husband submitted medical bills that were more than that monthly payment.  And then they dropped the couple and refused to pay a dime.

All three executives said they would continue their policy of rescission regardless of whether the insured had knowingly lied in filling out the application or not. They said it keeps their costs down.

You got a problem with that?