Re yesterday’s post: the woman knew she didn’t know how much she was asking so she was trying to find out if it was a reasonable ask. I suggested tie quilts because everybody could be involved in making however many and it would be more of a community outreach.

And because I was remembering the one we were surprised with and how much came from that.

Years ago there was just one girl in our ward finishing high school that year and the women decided to make her a quilt as a graduation gift; one is an easy number.

My daughter took her beautiful new pieced quilt to college and found herself with a roommate from a town in the Midwest that was going through a severe downturn.

Richard and I had lived in that state for a year during grad school: the next town over had had seven factories. Five had closed and two had cut half their workforces. I remember the Vietnam veteran dad who’d made a good wage pushing a union broom who’d never learned to read and suddenly had no way to get that income back. The ward there helped him set up a pick-your-own strawberry farm on his acreage so he could have an income while not having to pay anybody to harvest. I taught his ten-year-old, and I’ve long hoped things turned out okay for the four of them.

Sam’s roommate had a single thin blanket from Walmart and her family had zero funds for more. But she was there at college, with her whole future open to her.

My folks were visiting when Sam came home at Christmas. She and my mom went off to the local quilt shop and the two of them working together in great anticipation made a quilt for her roommate: to match hers, she told her, trying to avoid any whiff of my family has money that yours doesn’t. She told her, I’m paying it forward on what my ward did for me.

She’s one of our local church leaders, and like all of them, a volunteer.

She had been asked to help with local veterans.

They needed to feel cared about and the weather is cooling, she said to me, and she wanted to know if there were any other knitters or crocheters in our ward besides the three of us she knew about? Would it be do-able to ask us to knit hats or scarves for each of them?

I did not know at all how many people she was asking about nor over how large a geographical area. It might well be that she wasn’t sure yet herself.

I told her the story of someone announcing in the women’s meeting years ago that maybe I could knit everybody a scarf?

My first reaction had been a horrified thought of, You have no idea what you’re asking!

But somehow…it sank in. I could at least do some.

There was no kind nor reasonable place to stop once I’d started, but I didn’t say that–and I did love watching people’s faces light up.

That is how, I told my friend, I spent 10-15, sometimes 20 hours a week on those. For eighteen months. I didn’t get everybody because some people moved out before they could find out they were supposed to get one, but, that’s the kind of time we’re talking about. About ten hours for a cowl, about five for a hat. (If they’re nothing particularly complicated, but I didn’t say that.)

She said something in there about making blankets and I told her my current one takes about two hours an inch to do (again, that’s the simpler sections, but her eyes were big enough–my point was made.)

Okay, then. Wow. She’d had no idea it would take that much time.

Maybe we could tie quilts? I asked.

An old friend back visiting for the first time in twenty years grabbed my attention for a hug and we left it at To Be Continued.

Hey, I said to her, are you still interested in that Anya apricot seedling? That one planted this spring that was promised to someone else. They just finally decided they want it but they just don’t have the room nor the sun for it, so if you still do, it’s yours.

She was ecstatic!

Alright then, we just need to get it over to you. Wonderful!

So at that dinner last night.

An improved caption app on my phone means I can actually follow a conversation in a less than quiet environment. It wasn’t till today that I realized that she wasn’t expecting that. I don’t think she would have said this in front of me if she had.

There was an elderly woman and she was not talking directly to me when she lamented that (and it sounded like an out-of-context talking point straight from her preferred vulpine network) “A thousand churches in the US have been shut down and taken over as mosques. It’s the fall of civilization.”

The other person shrugged a yeah, okay, whatever, hon, and the subject was dropped.

I wanted to say, So people are still going to church (let’s not quibble over the cultural words for such), still looking for community, still trying to live up to their religions by holding themselves accountable before their fellow man simply by showing up to be reminded of their duty towards their fellow man and belief in G_d together. Cool.

Except that I knew she wouldn’t be able to hear me in both senses of the word if I tried.

But I did find a moment later to tell her that a friend of mine had been at university in the US when the Shah fell, and she knew if she went back she’d be perceived as an American and in great danger. So she married a man in the same boat and they raised their family here.

When their daughter got engaged the dad made a point that he did not want her to do the American thing of living together out of wedlock. The family wanted to throw a big wedding for her. He wanted her to wait.

Since the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-Day Saints is very big on the waiting for marriage thing, I knew that that would mean something to my friend and maybe open her eyes a little.

To honor her parents, the couple chose to slip off to the courthouse and quietly get married there first so that they would be doing it right before G_d, or at the very least her parents’ perception of such: the commitment to each other comes first.

Maybe I got through a little bit. She seemed glad to hear of it.

I was talking to a friend at a dinner this evening; he’s a lawyer and had this to share:

A doctor, an engineer, and a lawyer were each claiming that theirs was the oldest profession.

The doctor: Well, Eve was made from Adam’s rib–clearly, that was quite the medical intervention.

The engineer: Genesis says that the earth, the sky, the day, the night, everything was created from chaos. So clearly it was a feat of engineering.

The lawyer, triumphantly: Chaos?

A motion-sensor chime went off: someone was at the door. I went to go retrieve the package-?

He’d been nicely groomed and you could see his sweet face. His tail was wagging happily at the sniffing all the new smells: roses! Holly bush! Azalea plants!

I walked to the front of the house to see if the little guy’s owners were coming right up behind–I know he’s always on leash when they’re on walks–but they were nowhere in sight.

He ran next door and that had to have been even more fun because they have a white dog about his size. Who was not coming out to play; when I called, he came back over to me.

Not the least bit skittish. He let me pet him. (So soft!) But I had no leash to help take him home.

And then he sat. And looked up at me. He seemed to be expecting something.

Would he let me pick him up? He would, quite happily, that tail and those big eyes and lashes looking up into my face as if he’d discovered his very bestest friend and I always thought he was cute but let me tell you, that little dog melted my heart right there. He didn’t wriggle nor try to get down, he was where he wanted to be.

Nobody answered the door at his house.

I finally stepped back a bit and saw that their gate was open. Mystery solved. I walked over there thinking I would put him down in there and quietly close it behind him, but a plumber was on the other side of the yard and I got glimpses of the neighbor on the other side of him.

I called out his name: Would he like his puppy back?

The two of them walked over towards me, chuckling, and the neighbor took up his small dog fondly into his arms and I had to let it go.

As I sit down to type: we just got back from the hospital, now that he was up to visitors.

He and his wife told us he went from fine to, two hours later, her asking whether she should call an ambulance–but they got in the car and she raced for the ER. They wondered out loud between them whether he would have made it if they’d waited for a 911 response. He described what happened next as staggering in the door there knowing he was dying and he had no idea why.

They had no idea triage could work that fast.

The first surgery was in the middle of the night. The second was the second day. The twisted paralyzed part of his intestines is gone now and he was actually eating a liquid bit of dinner.

Plain chicken broth is the worst, she said.

Actually, it’s pretty good, he said, glad to be able to get anything that wasn’t through an IV.

She said she knew he was feeling better when he started wisecracking at the nurses to make them laugh.

My rule of thumb is never stay more than an hour; let the patient rest, and so it was. But he looked way better than I expected.

After all the times they showed up for us it felt good to be able to be there for them.

Her plane is in the air, I can’t wait!

One of the things Whole Foods is good for is allergy-friendly food. I picked up a number of her favorites.

I found it. Yes! They had a dairy-free chocolate hazelnut spread. I debated on various cream substitutes for the rest of the ice cream batch I was plotting but realized I’d better let her tell me her preferences first.

You have to read every ingredient every time. Manufacturers make changes all the time.

The tired clerk looked like he was just counting the minutes till his shift was over and he could get out of there as he rang my stuff up.

I looked at the conveyer belt as he started to bag it up and told him, My daughter’s flying in from Boston tonight. So: all the chocolate!

He laughed and he looked at me with joy for my joy that I was going to get to see her. He was young but old enough to really know comings-home. It made his day, and that made mine: it was one of those moments that takes you by surprise and almost takes your breath away because all the sudden the love is right there, totally out in the open, we were strangers no more.

I told him Thank you! as I headed out of the store.

Richard’s reaction to the New York Times article about Andy’s farm turning into housing was the same as my initial one: Go. Go now. Everybody will want to.

I said, But I’m going tomorrow with Holly, but he and I both still felt it–Go! The place will be cleaned out.

I hopped right in the car and went.

She loves figs like I love peaches and the figs were on, along with the last of the nectarines and plums; from her house we are more than halfway to Andy’s and she wanted to see the place while it was still there. Her husband had a meeting in our town today. What’s an extra ninety minutes on the road at that point?

Cool, we’ll have a great time!

You never know though how plans will actually work out and they had a long drive ahead of them. I was standing in Andy’s farm store thinking about roasting figs and saving them in the freezer as an ingredient in winter, ready to go, and how good those have been to have. You never know. The figs will still be on next week, I’ll still be making my weekly trek. I don’t need a lot of them right now, I started to brush it away. One should be plenty for now. I’ll be right back tomorrow.

The thought persisted, hard, you never know.

So I brought home not one box for us but three: Exel, Tiger aka Panachee aka Panache depending on who’s doing the spelling, and Black Madeira. The descriptions of Black Madeira on the Fig Forum were so good that I actually bought a scion once but did not succeed at rooting it. I got a bit of leaf out of it before it died.

It was ten bucks. If I’d been serious about it I’d have bought a started tree but I knew I had no room for that.

So what actually happened: traffic was horrible and they were stuck in it for an extra hour and by the time she’d dropped him off across town, the idea of getting back in the car for another ninety, when we could just sit and talk and for me to be able to hear with no traffic noise…

And there were her figs all ready and waiting. Or mostly. One each of the Black Madeira and the Tiger had been sampled by then, because hey, we were going to go to Andy’s together the next afternoon. The one Delicioso plum she let me add to them hoped to make up for it.

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.

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.

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.

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

No one was doing anything with water this afternoon when he heard the big gurgle sound and hurried to check it out.

The tub was filling with water. The bathroom floors were in Deep Splash mode and flowing out the doors, with ours flowing under our closet and soaking any clothes that touched clothes that touched the floor, and I am married to a tall man. I instantly knew what a huge job this was all about to be.

But everything had been fine a half hour earlier!

And if you mop it up with towels–I had this moment of oh I’m so glad we got that dryer in time! immediately followed by, wait… Water was pouring out of the laundry room too. With no machine in use all day.

At least it was clear. It was clear it was clear it was clear. Not that I’d trust it for that but at least it felt better.

Shortly after, a friend drove up with his shop vac as I was twisting out towels out front and told him I was watering the azaleas.

Dave pitched right in. We sent him home with Andy’s peaches and a pound of dried apricot slabs and he asked about how to take care of the apricot tree we gave him a few months ago; I showed him mine so he could see what his would look like at a year older, and at the difference in growth since he’d picked up his.

This city owns its own utilities and they answer to the voters, which I love because it means their emergency guy came out within minutes to check the city’s line to the house. He was actually apologetic that the problem wasn’t there so he couldn’t do anything about it; we sent him off with thanks and a peach.

We sent yesterday’s installers home with a small box of peaches each.

We’re hoping our favorite plumber can make it tomorrow.

And after that I’m going to have to go back and pick up more peaches at Andy’s because we’re going through them pretty fast.