Dr. Rachel Remen passed away on Saturday.

Kitchen Table Wisdom. My Grandfather’s Blessings. Two of the most important books I’ve ever read, and I recommend them to anyone and everyone.

She went to bed in her college dorm room one night and woke up six months later after a coma from blood loss, her first sign of Crohn’s disease. She made it through not just college but medical school after that.

She got offered head of pediatrics at Stanford, her dream job–but turned it down after seeing how they treated one of her young patients. She was determined to alter the culture of medicine for the better since she knew it well from the patient side as well as the professional. People went into it to be helpers but the process stomped the empathy right out of them. That had to change.

I have lived long enough and been a patient long enough to feel it is fair to say she succeeded at that.

A memory: meeting up with a man I grew up with since third grade after finding out he lives here–and realizing as he told me his story that he was in one of her stories, it all matched up, though you’d never be able to figure it out just from what she wrote. His dad and Rachel were old friends. She counseled the son when he was ready to walk away from medicine and helped him instead become a great doctor by working through his pain with him, to see that his compassion was the very strength that his pain was making visible. I have long been grateful to her for that.

She gave a reading at a local independent bookseller sometime in the early 90’s from her book, “My Grandfather’s Blessings” and then took questions from the crowd. I wrote about that here.

For those with long memories, Don Meyer was an elderly friend who used to comment on my blog all the time. Before he went into hospice, he had a visiting med student from UCSF attending to him once a week, they had some program going, I’m not sure of the details. But: Don got chatting to him about Dr. Remen and the young man said with great pride that she was one of his professors.

So through that avenue I sent a request that offered context to the evening at Kepler’s as to who I was, wondering whether Dr. Remen would like a lace shawl knit just for her?

It wasn’t going to be a wedding ring shawl–those take months on tiny needles and I didn’t know how long Don would be getting those visits–but fingering weight soft, soft baby alpaca in cream, I figured that would be pretty universal.

Dr. Remen’s response to my query was to send me her home address in great delight for me to mail it to directly. Afterwards she went me a much-treasured thank you note.

She was 88. The world was so lucky to have her as long as we did.

For the first month I figured, let them be. New moms are so tired and toddlers can act out when there’s a new sibling upstaging them and you want your kids to be seen at their best–I remember the days. Give them some time to adjust.

But you know those peaches I got extras of at Andy’s on Friday weren’t going to eat themselves: they were meant to be shared.

Was it a good time, I texted.

Yes! she wrote back.

And so I brought the neighbors some Cal Reds and some Kiaweas, perfectly ripe.

She came out with the baby in a front pack sleeping blissfully all snuggled up in there. It was such a gift to let me get to see him. So much love. We caught up a moment, grateful for it, and then let each other go back to our evening.

The treehouse DebbieR referred to. Photos here.

Four stories high, now with an elevator and building-code compliant.

I think if you ever had to cut down one of those trees that it’s no longer dependent on you’d have to do it really really carefully. But what a cool house!

A potluck picnic at the pool, old friends gathered, stories swapped.

I finally got to hear the rest of the story of the duck. The infamous huge duck. That actually once got a swim in the Baylands preserve. But mostly it was right by the side of the main commuter artery into downtown.

The artist who made it from scraps of metal and who knows what all else got harassed by the city over it and finally offered it to one of his co-workers from his day job (this guy) who appreciated such fine, fine craftsmanship.

The new owner’s kids liked to take turns camping in it.

A woman pushing a stroller stopped my friend and said she’d just moved here and her husband had bought the house without her even getting to see it first and she didn’t want to live in that town with the snooty reputation and he’d assured her, It’s okay. There’s a duck down the street. So she was looking for the duck.

Karen just so happened to know exactly where that was. (Here, let me show you the other side of my yard…) The woman went away much cheered. Quirks are fun. Good neighbors are the best. Two-for-one.

Then the particular city official whose position shall not be named here went after them because he really did not like that duck and thought it a blight on the community and dammit that thing was still around after all. Karen described it as “the size of a Volkswagon bug” and she was not wrong. Did I mention it was bright medium blue? You couldn’t miss it.

The judge was appalled: You’re bringing a case against these people? Over a LAWN ORNAMENT? Don’t you ever harass them nor waste this court’s time over such nonsense again!

The family had their seventh child and wanted to put a second story on their house. They needed those extra bedrooms.

That guy again. He told them You will NEVER get a building permit, and then he made good on that threat–until eventually he was fired. They built their second story.

So what happened to the duck? I asked. I used to drive by it all the time and it was one of those little perks of living here, everybody in the city knew that thing.

One of her kids had knocked its head off when no one was looking because he wanted his own bedroom and he was afraid someday he might have to sleep outside inside the duck like his big brother liked to do but that did not do it for him.

But that duck had adventures: permits were issued, it was hauled to the main drag on a trailer to celebrate a Stanford game, it was stolen by the rival high school who did not have a trailer nor permit and they bashed it in a bit in the process but it was gotten back.

So where is it now? I asked. I haven’t seen it in years.

Oh, I’ve still got the head, she said.

After laughing at this and remembering the skunkweed by the creek from my youth, I had to ask.

Yes, they do. But not quite like this bee guy had fun with. The apparently official word is that the sound of the fart of a bee is a thing but it has not been studied.

Well why not? Where are all the little kids who hiked the creeks and trails who were supposed to grow up to be scientists? I mean, that’s a ten-year-old’s dream of an investigation.

Okay, then, how about musicians?

The after dinner Nautilus mini puzzles: if you choose a bigger one you’re stuck till it’s all done but if you do one (now two or three) of the 50-ish piece ones (that you’ve come to know well and can do quickly), you can quit at any time for the night. A little together time.

We avoid buying ones in the older Classic cut. We have one: sunflowers, a butterfly, what was not to love, right?

It quickly came to be a joke about how strong is our marriage. Wooden pieces don’t exactly snap together anyway but this one acts like north/south magnets repelling each other. It’s easier to just choose a different one.

I picked up a small stack tonight and as the bottom slid out of the lowest I realized what I had done. The broken Corelle of puzzles, everything everywhere, and it was the sunflower one.

So then we had to do it to make sure I’d found it all.

It’s missing this connector, he says. I go looking and to my surprise there it was over there, he was right.

Some frustration later, okay, I go looking again. The emergency Go bag by the door–all its crevices. The wheels of the long-unused wheelchair. Afghans, shaken out. The immovable cushion on the futon chair coughed up two pieces of Lincoln Logs that had missed their given-away date by twenty years.

Four pieces.

That didn’t do it.

One last piece. A corner piece. (And I’m thinking, so that means we don’t ever have to do this one again, if we’re lucky.)

We could say a prayer, he said helpfully.

I laughed and asked him: Could you think of a less important thing to ask G_d to help with? But maybe He would enjoy the joke, so I did, telling Him, This is not important and it doesn’t matter if we don’t but if You want us to find this silly thing we would love it. If You want; it doesn’t matter.

Then we both laughed.

I put a note in the box with the problem and date and now we can actually avoid the darn thing in good conscience because maybe we’ll actually find it and this was just another sneaky way to get me to spruce up that part of the house better, which it is now.

The problem is, until we do find it, how does one vacuum that room?

Finally feeling this again.

Add a little more color to the rock in the water near the beach. Start some tree roots near the edge of the hilltop, not nice and neat but gripping tightly against the winds sweeping inland. Like that. Yes.

That’s what the coastal afghan had needed to get me really going again after a week on sewer cleanup: new parts, new colors, new interest. The dark green merino for the branches arrived a few days ago and is ready for me.

I can just hear it: Kids! Didn’t I tell you not to slam the door!

I just hope when they were building this place that the contractors didn’t put all the boxes of things for the bathrooms in one place as they worked on other rooms.

Because you know what they say: people in glass houses shouldn’t stow thrones.

I love my stoneware from Mel and Kris. But I also use small white Corningware plates all the time for all the little things. Good for carrying peach pits to the compost bin and all that.

No matter that they’re never loaded to touch anything in the dishwasher, sometimes an old one will come out with a tiny chip or round divot, which is a good time to let them retire.

I was unloading the machine this morning when suddenly there was this tiny emphatic stabbing of broken glass. Too tiny to see but wow did that thing have a bite to it, there was no question what that was.

I had one of those rare flashes of brilliance: I stepped around the corner to where the heavy-duty clear shipping tape was. I cut off a small piece, wrapped it around my finger and kind of kneaded it just for good measure, hoping I wasn’t pushing the thing further in.

Then I held the tape up to the skylight.

There it was. A round speck possibly smaller than the period at the end of this sentence. There was a tiny drop of blood on my finger, a few minutes more of ouchie while my finger whined at me, and then that was that. It was gone.

So I thought I’d mention it in case anyone else ever needs to know.

Scene: Church. Russ speaking.

Of the purpose of our gathering together: Of learning to serve one another and love one another, fully, completely, as we are Loved, every one of us.

One young dad when it was his turn spoke of the joy of waiting for their firstborn last month, of finally getting to meet her–and of his forever gratefulness for the prayers sent her way as she spent a week in the NICU fighting for her life.

His new daughter is safe and sound and home now. It doesn’t turn out that way for everyone, he said, and he knew that, and he knew he didn’t understand why that was so and he was all the more grateful that for them it got to turn out how they had so hoped.

What he didn’t know yet but I do is that that will see him through so many moments to come of her growing up: this is the child they almost lost. This is the child that G_d meant to have be here, after everything her birth could throw at her, and she is alright. She will be all right. No matter the individual moments along the way.

Teenagerhood ain’t got nuthin’ on the memories held by a parent who nearly lost that child. Gratitude rules.

The Dollaradio place I linked to yesterday was as I mentioned a radio and telegraph relay station built by a man born in 1844 and Richard Byrd’s Antarctic expedition posted its updates through it. And here I thought it was some ’60’s hippy commune built with whatever came to hand.

It turns out two men added a kitchen and turned it into their home right after WWII, trying to keep the historical details, and in 1977 some guy bought it despite his wife really having issues with that. Understandably. But she ran an animal rescue and it had plenty of room for their dogs and cats and it worked out.

So it was a ham shack! was Richard’s reaction, pleased.

He got his ham radio license after the Loma Prieta quake, when his aunt was a half mile from the epicenter and we couldn’t reach them that first day. Hams work where phones don’t.

And then he volunteered with the Red Cross and municipal disaster services for years and did the annual Field Day, where you try to connect with fellow hams around the world in testing the system. Byrd’s ghost would be pleased with that.

But as for that real estate listing, I doubt you’d be able to get an occupancy permit now unless your name is Neptune.

The latest mindless Mecha hat on the needles, where the colors do the work.

I actually need to go buy more for the next one.

P.S. Given how many of the most scenic homes in Pacifica are now swimming with the fishes, I don’t even know how this place is for sale. Don’t step out the back door. Did the realtor even go in to take those pictures, or did they send a drone there, too?

Update: if you can access it, here’s the history of the place. It was a telegraph and radio transmission station, and Richard Byrd reported on his Antarctic expedition through it 98 years ago. Someone turned it into a home in 1945.

A birthday, a party, good friends properly celebrated. G’night!

The thrill of being able to do laundry again does lose a little bit after the twelfth straight hour of it, and tomorrow looks to be the same; the towels have to be clean before you can use them to clean. And there was half a closetful of wet clothes to deal with–long way to go there–as well as catching up on the normal day-to-day.

But every time I walk in and see that new machine it does still feel gratifying to be able to.

I did get a wow and a laugh: he knew the guy who became, it turns out, the owner of this house. We’d always wondered how things had turned out for him.

I puzzled and puzzled and cannot tell from the pictures how the twists in the stairs end in doors that open, but then, for us, we chose for them not to.

At 4:29 he said he was on his way. Yay!

He had me flushing toilets so many times each, stopping when the shower pans started to fill up again, waiting, then doing it again only more and turning on the shower once he got the roots cut to help wash it all out. He was on the roof, I was inside and occasionally running outside for further instructions, phone captions at the ready. There is a reason I put on a skirt with deep pockets this morning.

A little after 6 he was on his way home towards dinner with one of the last of our peaches.

The first dishwasher load is done.

The second laundry load is about to go in the dryer–having warmed clothes is such a novelty–and I will be doing towels and towels and towels tomorrow. They’ve been laying out playing beach bum in the sun and who knew we had so many that were burgundy?

I wonder what the plane passengers have been thinking as they look down near the airport.