Hands Off

Scarlett was playing her keyboard yesterday, which usually just means pressing a button and dancing to a string of prerecorded songs that make me want to drive my wheelchair directly over the instrument after about ten minutes. But this time, she brought some more creativity to her musical endeavors.

“Mom, listen,” she said to me. “The duck is fighting with the bird.” She pressed the lowest key and the highest key, creating the sounds of two loud animals becoming increasingly annoyed with each other.

“What are they fighting about?” I asked.

“Food.”

Then the coyote was fighting with the woodpecker. Or something like that. There were a few more battles.

“AND NOW ALL THE ANIMALS ARE FIGHTING!” she screamed, throwing her body across all the keys. Cacophony. Read More>

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The Bridge

Drive over the Bay Bridge, eastbound, meaning out of San Francisco. The second half of the bridge is all new construction, white and clean and nothing special, except for those killer views of the water. But look to the right and you can see the skeletal remains of the former Bay Bridge, the one I knew so well, the one that used to be strong, but is being disassembled. Ripped down.

Watch it as you leave the city, and think about how much it carried. All those people, all those stories. Yeah, yeah, yeah, you’re safer on the new bridge, but doesn’t it make you a little sad to see something so important coming apart? Look closely, while you can. It’s a ghost town. It’s an entry in a history book.

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At the beginning of 2005, I moved from Berkeley to San Francisco. I worked in the East Bay, which meant a daily commute over the Bay Bridge. Getting to work was easy, a reverse route that took me past rows of frustrated drivers, making their way slowly into the city, while I breezed along, blasting music and sipping coffee.

After work, I got in my car to go home, and that was the best part of the day. Getting on the bridge, realizing I lived in this amazing city, watching the buildings appear in front of me. Coit Tower, Alcatraz, the triangle-topped Transamerica Pyramid, Sutro Tower. The Bay, just rippling along, catching whatever light bounced off the city. Read More>

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Dispatches from Tahoe

Sunday afternoon, Easter: Our mobility-converted Honda Odyssey is climbing into the Tahoe area, and we can see snow flying off of the windshields of cars coming down the mountain on the other side of the road. We keep climbing and suddenly we are in the snow, light flakes falling, but enough to inspire Scarlett to launch into Let It Go. It really doesn’t take much to get her to sing that song. “Snow glows white on the mountain tonight!” she crows, and when she has finished the song, she starts it again. And again. Also again. I blame jelly beans.

Monday: We’ve come to the snow for our spring break, although I’ve discovered via Facebook that everyone else we know seems to be in Hawaii this week. After a tough season in Tahoe with barely any snow, there are now “two feet of fresh powder at the summit.” Those words are in quotes because I heard someone else say them. I don’t talk like that. I was always a reluctant skier; once I got going, it was fun, but I never loved it. You can read about my last ski experience here. It will clue you into why skiing is not something I miss very much. But having written that, I feel it necessary to add that there were times, skiing down a simple blue run, when I felt so graceful and so peaceful that I could see why people obsess over the sport. That doesn’t change the fact that chair lifts are scary.

In the afternoon, we teach Scarlett how to play Old Maid. She wins two games, and Rob has a talk with her about sportsmanship. Read More>

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