So, she left Monte Rio, son ...
Just like a bullet leaves a gun. 
Tom Waits, Hold On

​24 hours in Guerneville, near Monte Rio.
Alone for a day for the first time since my dad died.


Go solo, with a sense of urgency.
Bullet leaving a gun.
Enter tent at Autocamp with low expectations. 
Be pleasantly and exceedingly surprised. 
Say yes to herbal tea and Toblerone.
Read two long chapters in Commonwealth (which lands a direct hit to your solar plexus every three pages or so, as the story is a thinly-veiled, fictionalized account of Patchett's semi-blended family, post-divorce).
Out early. 
Up early. 
They've thought of everything. Electric blanket. Caffeine. Warm fire. Soothing bath products. 
You don't have to remind people to send their teachers letter of rec requests for college apps, to pick up their wet towels, to say thank you, to turn off their space heaters, to schedule and re-schedule the tutor, to please stop using the words like, ratchet, reals, goals, totes, to e-file the ex parte application, to send the medical records to the expert, to follow-up with the client. 
You are a non-nag for one whole day. 
Drive directly to Armstrong Redwoods State Natural Reserve. 
Run up the East Ridge Trail. 
Breathe in the world's most perfect fall morning air. 
Get lost. 
Forget about your basal cell carcinoma, which is having a "robust reaction" to the requisite six-week treatment that feels like applying acid to your forehead.
Forget about the right eyebrow that has consequently gone partially missing (about which the middle daughter inquired, "Well, would you rather have two eyebrows AND cancer?")
Forget about the knee with no cartilage.
Forget about your dead father being dead. 
Instead, feel him with you on the trail, just to your right.
You're not really lost, just alone ... naturally, for the first time since he passed.
You're not surprised that he showed up here. That his presence is palpable. 
He's the one, after all, who got you to start running with him the summer after your freshman year of college when you came home 15 pounds heavier and a whole lot unhappier than when you left. 
He's the one who knew your thoughts, felt your feelings.
Who loved and forgave you ... even when you couldn't love and forgive yourself. 
Know, in that instant, that he still does.
At least when you allow yourself to think and feel, which you do.
In these blessed woods. 





alone // not alone

Norman Lear, one of the most successful television producers of all time (as if I needed to include that), is old. 93 to be precise. Still tack-sharp. Wise too, as confirmed during NPR's Wait, Wait Don't Tell Me with Peter Sagal last week (a re-broadcast). When asked what his secret to a good, long life is, Lear didn't miss a beat: "Two words: over and next." Queue the collective sigh of relief from the listening audience. The psychic burden we carry in not letting go and/or moving on (relationships, jobs, trauma, life in general) can be ... onerous. Lear knows from that. Thrice married (his current wife is a therapist), the man's expansive experiences include flying 52 combat missions in WWII and serving as co-officiant in Trey Parker's wedding. In between, there were just a few Emmys and a lot of effective political activism. I admire him for starting the progressive NPO People for the American Way (for which a dear law school friend went to work, student loans be damned) and producing Mary Hartman, Mary Hartman, a show initially banned as too edgy on account of the divorced mom. Please. 

"Over and next are underused words," but as important, he explained, there's "a hammock in between, which is the present moment, and that's where I am. In the hammock—in the here and now—between over and next." 

We're with you Norm, hopefully, till we're 93. 

Meanwhile, coming soon to a theater near you, an award winning documentary about his life: 

Norman Lear: Just Another Version of You. 

Don't we all wish we were SNL writers this instant? Oh, the price the Donald will pay on late night TV! It isn't painful for him though. As an megalomaniac, he likes it. Begs the question, however: Why isn't he paying the ultimate price by being fired by supporters as the RNC candidate? Because he's male, that's why. Yes, some people are stepping up and withdrawing their support (and yes, we are watching you, Chris "crickets" Christie), but yesterday's videogate begs another question.  

If demonic Drumpf and silly Billy Bush were women, one of whom was running for President of the United States and one of whom was a co-host on the Today Show, would they have been fired by supporters and NBC, respectively, for chatting about grabbing mens' cocks without permission and whenever they felt like it? In other (grown-up) words, if they were advocating sexual assault? What do you think would happen to those women in public and private spheres? 

Maybe what the Donald meant to say was "When you're a MALE star they let you get away with anything."

Make no mistake: I want this guy on the ticket. I want my daughter, who gets to vote for the first time on Nov. 8, to cast her historic ballot. I want Drumpf to go down in flames by double digits. I want something GOOD to come from this nightmare, namely, a generation of Supreme Court decisions that will have old, white, angry, double standard-bearers losing a lot of sleep and paying the ultimate price for their parlous, idiotic candidate of choice. 



#goodlucksunday! #drumpfdone #vote

A week after this post, I read Kristof's brilliant column entitled: "If Hillary Groped Men." 
​Worth a gander ... and your incredulity.