Preparedness

I lived in the Bay Area for about six years before I consciously felt any kind of earthquake. It's not that they didn't happen. I just didn't notice.

Since returning from France, I've started to tune in much more to the belly rumblings down there. We've had a handful of minor witching-hour tremblers recently—tiny enough to cause no alarm, but big enough to wake me up at night.

During those first six years, my earthquake preparation consisted of buying a couple of gallons of water and hiding them between the fridge and the kitchen wall. This time, I decided to get hardcore proactive and make myself a real earthquake kit.

There are a billion websites that teach you how, but their must-have lists tend to include stuff like wrenches, fire extinguishers, and bolt cutters. I'd have to drive around with half of OSH in my trunk.

I decided to go the practical, minimalist route instead. Some might say "lazy." OK, fine. But I have a zippy earthquake kit now (with a solar-powered radio!), and all it took was 15 minutes and my credit card.

The good but misguided people at Quake Kare advertise the kit I bought as the "deluxe fanny pack" model. After you stop laughing at that, you can laugh at the image of me keeling over backward if I ever actually try to wear this honking thing around my waist:


I may not have a fanny deluxe enough to bear the weight of postapocalyptic survival, but at least I have a bit more peace of mind.

Temps perdu

I keep forgetting to wear my watch to work. I have a million meetings and deadlines and I generally like knowing what time it is, so this is a weird development.

It's either a sign of heightened inner peace, whereby the constraints of time have ceased to shackle my overcommitted urban soul...or early senility.

But doesn't 28 seem a little young for either of those?

Just in case

I've been getting the Travelzoo weekly newsletter for years now, and I don't think I've ever actually purchased any of the deals they spotlight in there.

Even so, it's fun to read for the sake of pipe-dreaming—what if I just went ahead and got that $600 flight to Sydney leaving tomorrow?—and I've been known to forward listings to anyone they might conceivably help.

But for the life of me, I can't figure out who would use this one:

$369 -- Singapore from Memphis (each way)
http://www.travelzoo.com/Top20.asp?id=102278850
Source: Northwest Airlines

I think that's what they call a niche route.

The rabbi and the farmer

Nothing which turns its back totally on human accomplishment because of human failure can work well enough. Nothing which is totally subjective and ignores the lessons of human experience can work well enough.

—Eugene Lipman
Sinai Sermons

Thirteen years ago yesterday, my saba died of an especially brutal and quick form of brain cancer.

Over the course of six months, he went from a learned scholar with a fuzzy face, a big round belly, and a mind brilliant to the point of intimidation, to a silent and delicate old man in a white bed. Propped up on pillows.

We lived about eight hours away from my grandparents' house in Chevy Chase, MD, just outside D.C. Given the distance and our school schedule, we weren't able to see Saba much during his illness. Regular updates came in from Savta and Dad.

I don't remember much about those six months. I was 15, focused on my own tiny world of college applications and squash season, and I'd never experienced any kind of close death.

Three memories of Saba's cancer:

1. Sitting on his bed at the hospital just before he died, saying goodbye, feeling equally sure and unsure he could hear me. His eyes sad and heavy, seeking to communicate, resigned to the inabilities of his mind and voice.

2. At his funeral, hugging a family friend I rarely saw, grateful for her touch and her obvious deep sadness. Thinking that burial was surreal but necessary, the ultimate form of closure.

3. Reading his obituaries in The New York Times and Washington Post, feeling proud but disconnected. I learned about all his titles, honors, community work, rabbinical work, and war work from those articles. He used to bring us stationery from the White House, but somehow I didn't connect that with his having been invited there.

Saba was difficult and accomplished, funny and complicated, regimented and educated and heroic and demanding, the king of pontification. He loved me and my brother and cousins so much that I used to describe him as my marshmallow grandpa. I was too little to be drawn into discussions or arguments or lessons. I just remember that giving him a hug felt like hugging the Michelin Man, squishy and safe.

Saba advised several U.S. presidents. He marched with Dr. King. He raised hell alongside the ACLU. He wrote books. He smuggled Jews across borders to safety in postwar Germany. He believed powerfully in sins and mitzvot, in spirit and justice, struggling to find them both in a world whose problems he analyzed weekly in sermons from his pulpit. He was full of emotional blockades that only started to release in the last years of his life.

Saba let me name his brown pickup truck Figaro. He put on a dirty undershirt and work pants, took Figaro to the acre of farm he tended, filled it up with tomatoes and carrots and whatever else he could produce, and delivered them to local shelters for women and children who knew him only as the Vegetable Man.

Years ago, I opened a novel from his library and discovered that my signature looks just like his, three capital letters and a scrawl at the end. So does my father's.

I never knew my saba as an adult, when he might have kicked my ass at Scrabble and taught me things I could carry away. I don't remember our conversations or any advice he may have given a little girl.

It's common, this hole, but each January I stop and remember that it can ache all the same.

Offensive talents

Gibson must like it when I spend lavishly on his health, because he started off the new year by driving like a champ for 1,376.4 miles.

Maybe a little too much of a champ, since I picked up my first ever speeding ticket on this trip—and it's so enormous that it's like retribution for managing to avoid any others in the last dozen years. I didn't know they made tickets that big.

But my brother, always wise counsel, reminded me of something our equally wise saba used to say: "If it can be solved by time or money, don't worry about it." I think I'll roll with that.

When The Semi and I reached Oregon after 11 hours en auto, we were greeted by her excellent friends K and B and some warm lentil soup, followed by many hours of rocklike sleeping.

The next day, we frolicked around what turned out to be a bigger downtown than I'd realized on previous trips. Our first stop was a steel bridge, one of about nine (I think) bridges that you can walk across and/or under in pedestrian-friendly Portland.


The best part about crossing the bridge was the vague feeling we were doing something naughty. I mean, you're not supposed to be able to see what a bridge looks like from underneath, right? But wait:




The second best part was the random traffic light about halfway across. Apparently it's a drawbridge that sometimes separates for passing boats, but since there weren't any, this was kind of hilarious:


Stop! THERE'S NO ACTUAL CROSSWALK AND NOTHING COMING! Okay, you can go.

On the other side of the bridge, we found these squat little green guys. The Semi says that's where they tie up boats, but I think they're on duty to make sure nobody runs the traffic light. It's not hard to imagine a camera in there:



There were also some scenic benches for perching:


Then we went to Chinatown. B says it's rapidly fading as a commercial district, but it still houses some restaurants, cute hipster businesses (like a bar full of video games and an all-night doughnut shop), and the beautiful Portland Chinese Garden.


An indicator of how carefully and proudly the garden is manicured: I spent a really long time looking at the floor.


K told me that the view through each interior window is of paramount importance to the garden's architect, and that's easy to believe.


Inside the garden is a small, gracious teahouse, where we warmed up for a while and adopted our new tea names: Golden Emperor, Tea Flowers (aka Blossom), Red Clover, and The Gink.

After a festive New Year's dinner that included Nikki and Gregg, plus champagne at midnight with a houseful of cheerful strangers, The Semi and I headed southward. You know what's coming, right?


Getting to the Treesort was like starring in the sequel to Deliverance, with one deserted backroad turning into another. A sign we passed along the way pretty much summed it up:


We arrived just as the sun was setting in the middle of nowhere. Melody the Treekeeper told us where to find coffee in the morning and said (when I asked for the key), "Oh, it's all open. We're mellow here." Then she pointed us to the Forestree, our 35-foot-tall home away from home:


Which we were supposed to reach via a couple of wobbly rope bridges:


Then she told us she'd be leaving, and gave us the phone number for the owner if we needed him. We were the only guests who showed up that night. Our guards included this imposing guy:


And, until her owner came by to pick her up, Ginger the Wonderdog:


In our defense, we did make it all the way to Forestree carrying our backpacks—I even tried to haul our cooler up there using the rickety pulley thing.

But after about five minutes, it became clear that 1) Cooler ain't never gonna happen, and 2) Treehouse feels like it won't stop swaying. We made a unanimous decision to chase Melody's car down the road until she gave us a less scary room.

Peacock Perch was much more civilized. Note the sturdy staircase:


Jitters neatly bypassed, we retired to the communal kitchen to make dinner and check out the exciting selection of games:


They were tempting, but we skipped them after discovering the speedy Wi-Fi. No central heating, but a killer wireless connection. It's all about priorities.

In the morning, we visited the treehorses. They were very busy eating:


Except when they paused between bites to give me the eye.


We also discovered the quaint collection of treelamps:


And treebarrows:


We even found some rules to break before we left.


The home stretch of the drive was about three hours longer than Google Maps expected, but we got our second wind at the Black Bear Diner:


All these other adventures aside, my high point of 2007 so far is reading a newspaper clipping on the wall of the Black Bear. Underneath a picture of a clean-cut high-school football team, it said:

"The Weed Varsity Cougars hope to take advantage
of their many offensive talents."

If you made it through this whole post, there's your reward. Happy new year.