Lasting Impressions

It’s hard to imagine a more literal example of being shut out than experiencing a whole house fire—yet alone a whole neighborhood fire—but that's what happened to my friends Bill and Pam. On Sunday, October 8th, 2017, the Tubbs Fire, driven by near hurricane-force winds, began to incinerate a swath that would cut across three counties before full containment was reached three weeks later. Deadly and destructive, that fire is believed to have taken at least 22 human lives, obliterated over 5,600 structures, with more than half of those being residential. Recently, Bill told me some of what it’s been like to cede his house, home and peace of mind to one of California’s most cataclysmic fires.

First, he described the night the fire began. None of his memories have faded with time. Around 8pm he was relaxing in his hot tub. His partner, Pam, was in Southern California visiting her grandchildren. At 9pm he had to close his bedroom windows because wind was causing the shades to clack against the sills. At 1:15am, he was roused from a sound sleep by the phone. His granddaughter, who lived closer to the fire’s ignition point and who had already been evacuated, implored him to leave, “Grandpa, there’s a fire! You need to get out of your house!" When he hung up, he honestly thought, “What’s she been smokin’?” but then less than a minute later there was an urgent knock at his front door, and it was a neighbor he had few interactions with, but she too was warning him of approaching fire.

At that point, he could see haze in the air, and he could smell smoke, but there was no sight of flames or even an orange glow in the night sky, and he was not immediately alarmed. It was inconceivable that he and his home were in any real danger. With a cool head and an unquestioned sense of duty, he proceeded to assist his neighbors. When the power went out, to the husband and wife that were four days from expecting their first child, he gave his two most readily available flashlights. After waking the French couple down the street, he reminded them to grab their passports before leaving. There was another single woman who he made sure to see off swiftly but safely. By 1:40pm, he was back in his own pitch-dark house searching for yet another flashlight. He called Pam to tell her about the fire and ask where he could locate some of her important papers. Still disbelieving that a fire would actually reach his house, he gathered up a few more small items, threw them in his Subaru, and headed into town. He felt certain that the fire fighters would stop whatever was burning.

From his neighborhood of Fountaingrove, he drove down the hill and parked in one of Kaiser Hospital's lots, but then their electricity also went out. Next, he headed to Denny’s, but then they closed because several of their employees lived in Coffee Park and they had to go and attend to their own crises. From the diner, he drove to his daughter's house in downtown Santa Rosa. Along Highway 101, he passed a flaming car and thought, “Oh my god. What is happening?” He was nervous but continued to have faith in the police and fire department's ability to contain the mounting threat. It was round 4:00am when he made the decision to return to his house. Since all of the normal routes were blocked off, he utilized a little-known back access road. He wanted to retrieve Pam’s car and his own little red sports car. As he got closer to his house, he was indeed astonished to discover his own cul-de-sac burning. Undeterred however, he parked his Subaru about a quarter mile from his house and ran up the road to complete his mission. A home that was a couple of doors down and across the street from his was fully engulfed with thirty-foot high flames. Fire trucks were driving by, but they weren’t stopping. A reporter from the Press Democrat was there and so was Kent Porter—the photographer who took the picture of Bill silhouetted against his neighbor’s burning house.

The smoke and heat were unbelievably intense, but Bill was determined to save the two automobiles. He was able to get Pam’s car down the road to where the Subaru was parked, and as he was returning on foot for his sports car, another of his neighbors came running to him. She had taken a sleeping pill and was just waking up. She was frantic to get her Lexus out of her garage, but with the power being out, she couldn’t open the door. She said to Bill, “You have to help me get my car out so I can escape.” Bill, now in a borderline panic of his own, was hardly thinking clearly. Rather than insist she get in his little red sports car so they could drive to safety together, he agreed to oblige her request. It was completely dark inside the woman’s house and garage, but he could see enough to make out that there was no pull cord to release the garage door from its track. With no time to find a ladder, Bill decided to leap from one of the door's hinges and take a flying swipe at the release. Mid-flight, it occurs to him that he was a sixty-nine-year-old man, and it would be a terrible time for him to break his ankle. Fortunately, he hit the mark, un-clicked the track, and landed unhurt. With hardly a nod of gratitude, the woman took off in her Lexus. Bill then buckled into his Mazda RX-7 and left his home for what he was sure would be the last time.

As the sun was rising, Bill struggled to accept that the unimaginable was occurring. In a state of shock, he roamed a grocery aisle in search of a simple toothbrush and paste. It was surreal. As was true for everyone that day, the magnitude of loss was still to be revealed. However, it didn’t take long for thoughts of what he had failed to grab, literally in the heat of the moment, began to haunt him. His birth certificate, property deeds, pink slips, his art, the spare key fobs, everything would be gone. More than his own belongings, what tears him up to this day is what he left behind of Pam’s. She had only a few months before moved all of her belongings out of storage and into his house. They were making every effort to create a home that would feel like it belonged to both of them. When she arrived later in the day, she would hear nothing of his guilt, but at the same time, she could do nothing to allay his critical inner voice. She embraced the fact that they faced an unknowable future, but they would face it together.

Both Pam and Bill are practical by nature, so replacing some of their cloths was a first order of business. Everything from under garments to outerwear needed to be purchased. A trip to Costco put them among other stunned survivors. In a moment of levity, the fellow shoppers were encouraging each other with fashion tips. It was October, so coats were in high demand. "Oh, that looks good on you. You should get that one,” they’d collectively urge.

In response to the emergent needs of the community, an enormous circus tent had been hastily erected in the parking lot of Home Depot to house a State Farm disaster response team. Early on in the process of rebuilding their lives, Pam and Bill found a spokesperson at the tent center to answer questions. Bill’s first question to the representative was about getting a copy of his policy. In a dismissive tone, the rep informed him that it was likely going to take weeks to process his request. His visceral response to that officious rebuff was instantaneous, but he restrained himself. For the sake of all the claimants that would file in after him, he felt a responsibility to break through her steely demeanor. In a calm voice, he asked her name, and then he used it when he invited her to stand where he was. He asked her to imagine losing her own home and then said, “How would you feel if you heard what you just said to me?” His tactic worked. She said she would see what she could do, and Bill received his policy the next day.  

Soon there was an insurance property claims adjuster who came out to measure Bill and Pam's property lot lines and what remained of their home’s foundation. Bill happened to be there when the fellow arrived and the two struck up a conversation. Bill discovered that this was the gentleman’s third disaster in a row. The guy hadn’t been to his own home in over five months. First, there had been hurricane Irma in Florida, then Houston flooded from hurricane Harvey, and now he was dealing with wildfire devastation in California. The two were standing in the ashes of Bill’s destroyed home, but Bill was the one who felt compelled to console the adjuster; Barry was his name. Barry was hardly asking for sympathy; it was all in a days work, but he appreciated the kindness all the same. In measuring the perimeter of the house, Bill insisted on holding the other end of the 100 ft. measuring tape. They worked together to get all of the necessary measurements, and when they parted company, Barry told Bill, “I've been doing this for over twenty years, and you're the first person that's ever helped me. Thank you!” 

After Barry was reassigned, Bill was appointed another property-loss claims adjuster who happened to be in Texas. The person was asking for unreasonable amounts of paperwork, and Bill felt the relationship was not going well. He felt the distance between them contributed to that adjuster caring more about saving the company money than helping him. He found the situation intolerable and advocated fiercely for a local adjuster. Meeting in person with whoever was to handle so many critical aspects of his dwelling insurance going forward was important to him. Again, this desire to connect served him. He was given a local adjuster, and they quickly established a rapport. Soon they began to chat about more personal matters. Bill learned that the agent’s grandmother and only living relative was celebrating her ninetieth birthday out of state, but the agent had to work and couldn’t go to the party. That struck Bill as terrible, and even though she was needed in the field, he suggested she really try to go; it was too important to miss. When he next saw his friendly adjuster, she thanked him for swaying her thoughts. “It’s because of you! I went because of you, and I’m so glad I did! Thank you!”

As is true for every homeowner effected by fire, the question of whether to rebuild or sell becomes pressing. The psychological trauma of devastating loss causes decision making to be a challenge. Victims are, by and large, fragile, exhausted, irritable, sleep deprived, and depressed, and yet determinations about what to do next have to be made. In the case of massive urban wildfires, supply and demand pressures compound the trauma as huge numbers of people must vie for temporary housing, furniture, cars, architects, contractors, designers, landscapers, building supplies of every variety, and the lists go on. Additionally, every aspect of recovery includes backed up lines for insurance claims, document retrievals, toxic waste testing, debris removal services, building permits, etc. The clock starts ticking on day one, and while sifting through the ruins; it’s also time to compile lists of every item lost. Plus, don’t forget to notify your utility companies—oh joy, more phone trees to get routed through and disconnected from. Everyone wants to return to normal, but normal can seem a long way away.

Bill, as a retired plumber, had been the master of his domain, tending to every aspect of his home with precision and care. When he and Pam made up their minds to rebuild, it was in part because Bill understood the trades from the inside out. That knowledge would prove to be both a blessing and a curse. In the wake of the fire, labor from the building trades was in extremely high demand; consequently, a large faction of under-skilled, poorly trained, distracted, and disinterested workers entered the scene. Bill values quality craftsmanship, and he can spot shoddy effort from a mile away, so when the work he had paid handsomely for was sub-par, he called it out. Doing the job he had hired a general contractor to do drove both he and Pam to a frequent state of distraction. Bill, with all of his experience, was not spared the headaches and heartaches of construction gone wrong. Drainpipes were angled backward; ceramic tiles were installed crooked; a light switch was mounted on the hinge side of a door. Twice during the rebuild, the couple considered halting all progress and selling “as is.” Bill described his frustration by saying, “You can hardly get out of bed some days. It’s like people are slapping you all the time, like their hitting you on the shoulder over and over. Maybe at first it doesn’t hurt, but pretty soon it gets really sore. It’s easy to sink to their level, but then you'd lose your own integrity."

As I listened to Bill with the intention of including his story in my Shut Out Stories blog, it became apparent to me that it wasn’t the loss of his home and it’s accumulation of treasured possessions that gave him the most grief; it was the onslaught of futile human interactions. He spoke of the three hundred emails he sent throughout the process—trying to be seen, wanting to be heard, demanding better from people. His efforts were not merely self-serving; he wanted to help others; he wanted systems to improve for the benefit of all. He wasn’t asking for special treatment; but he was asking for scruples; honesty, fairness, dependability, and everyday decency all too often turned out to be too much to ask.  

Bill’s disappointment with people not coming through, not doing their jobs, not caring enough was most apparent when he revealed his dissatisfaction with the fire and police departments. His house and his neighborhood had been passed over, and that torments him. Nobody came through with a bullhorn to save them. No fire trucks stopped. He and his neighbors were on their own. As he considered the fact that the 2017 fire was not unprecedented and a nearly identical path of destruction had occurred in 1965, he became incensed. Apparently, no lessons from history had been learned, no plans had been put in place. His spine stiffened as he described a video that had gone viral during the early days of the disaster. It revealed a Berkeley fire crew driving into both flames and smoldering ruins on the night the fires started. Where many viewers heard the crew’s shock and horror, Bill hears a group of directionless guys “basically joy riding." When he sees thank you first responder signs, he wants to gag. "I'm haunted by how police and fire failed us.” He continues to be in no mood for praise or to celebrate the people and systems that let him down.  

For me, this is at the heart of what I’m after with my shut out stories. The point of these stories is not about justifications or blame. My Shut Out Stories blog is about first identifying the myriad ways in which we can feel left out in the cold, both literally and figuratively. That ironically is a place of connection; we’ve all had them; we can all relate. Those lonely experiences of exclusion are the places where we get stuck. When we feel dropped, left behind, turned away from, it doesn’t matter if there’s more to the experience than what meets the eye. Sometimes, excuses just don’t cut it. We feel dissatisfied with outcomes, and we chew on all that went wrong.

What I look for in the shut out stories is where connections broke down. Something essential got overlooked or ignored. The details of the situation are important, but they only go so far. I’ve observed in myself and others that we can spend a lot of time trying to figure out what happened: diagramming timelines, replaying in our minds who said or didn’t say what, who did or didn’t do something, and imagining with great specificity how the situation could have and should have been handled differently. Unfortunately, those ruminations never bring relief. Brooding will not bring closure; it just leaves us attached to our disappointments.  

In order to lessen the grip of an unfair or unjust interaction, I first have to recognize that I’ve been stung by disconnection—and the usual tip off for that is that I suddenly find myself in a foul mood. Next, I have to admit that someone or some thing got to me, and that means accepting vulnerability, and who wants to do that? The thing is, I’m very sensitive, and that stuff stays with me. Those affronts can last years if not a lifetime. They are burdens that I carry with a heavy heart. But what I’ve discovered is that if I can identify where a severance occurred, then I can try and meet it, consciously and intentionally, with it’s opposite. This works at all levels from petty grievances to life-threatening disasters. Always, I find that the antidote to disconnection is connection.

It takes a lot of self-reflection to identify when we’ve been hurt from an incident of disconnection. When willing, it then becomes a matter of choice and self-care. I make it a practice to find and embrace where I am seen, where I’m heard, and where I’m valued. I do that because my well-being depends on it. Normally, and ideally, we can work out our differences with people by talking things through, but when we are shut out, that option, for one reason or another, doesn’t exist. When dialog can’t occur, I have to find an alternative way of moving forward. Noticing and embracing moments of connection both big and small can be the medicine that sooths the aches and pains of being disregarded. 

Where Pam and Bill lost their house, it was met with a deeper bonding in their relationship. As Bill and I were wrapping up our talk, Bill said, with a tear in his eye, that Pam was his angel. He also mentioned how helpful it was to spend time with his grandchildren, even if it was just twenty minutes shooting hoops with his grandson. Taking a yoga class helped or going on a long bike ride with friends. Having a kind word of encouragement for the insurance agent that was going to miss a family member’s ninetieth birthday or having empathy for the adjuster who hadn’t been home in several months were all bridges back to humanity. Having a pleasant exchange with another person while standing in a checkout line was enough to momentarily offset a day of disappointments. We want the give and take of life; we need it. When an encounter leaves us feeling empty handed, we’ve been shut out, and during those times, the best thing we can do for ourselves is recognize where meaningful connections exist and celebrate them in whatever big or small way makes the most sense.

Entering A Stranger's Life

I never would have encountered the disgruntled old woman, never would have gone from west coast to east, from San Francisco to Boca Raton, never would have been in the condo’s parking lot if my husband’s uncle—a man I’d never met—hadn’t pulled the trigger that ended his life.

I didn’t know him, but he left us an inheritance, the Florida condo.

We’d send a Christmas card every year, but as a gesture, it wasn’t reciprocated. I couldn’t say if he enjoyed those pre-printed tokens of holiday goodwill or not. The man was vague in my imagination, but he was a relative. Over the years, I thought little of why he might be uncoupled from the family, assuming he preferred it that way. As far as I could tell, there had never been a rift, so his vacancy hardly gave me pause. I had the impression that he was naturally reclusive, opting for privacy. He had no children, had never married. He didn’t work per se; his wealth was from an irrevocable trust. I pictured him as an unconventional gentleman, most likely conservative, possibly republican, perhaps disdainful of California liberals.

Over the years, the cards we sent took a beat more effort. I’d hesitate with self-conscious doubt, envisioning an eye roll at the sight of our return address stamped onto the distinctive, heavier than usual card stock envelopes. I wondered if it was obnoxious to persist with this December routine, letting the cards do the talking, signing off with a bright but trite, “Wishing you the best in the new year!” Chances were high that it would be twelve months before I gave him another thought. I was sincere, but I knew nothing of this Uncle Jimmy’s life. His years could have gone by good or bad; I wouldn’t know; I didn’t pry. 

We were in Boca for three days to meet his bank trustee, to do some sorting, and to make a decision about whether to keep the condo or sell it. We were on a mission. Before our arrival, a biohazard clean team had come in. I avoided the bedroom wall that had been scrubbed and primed. They said his mattress captured most of the blood. Uncle Jimmy was a curiosity; I wanted to know something of him, but I couldn’t let that stained surface do all the talking.

He was eccentric, to be sure. Able to afford housing of any variety, he chose a 900 sq. ft. walk up, and although it was across the street from the Atlantic Ocean, it appraised for a mere $235k. At first glance, the gray, two-story building looked like modestly maintained section 8 housing. He didn’t cook, must have eaten every meal out. There were no pots or pans, no coffee pot, toaster, or microwave, and the oven, original to the building’s 1970’s construction, appeared unused. He was a dedicated art and gemstone enthusiast; the bulk of his collections were bequeathed to three different museums. His bookshelves held a number of rare treasures: an autographed memoir by Eleanor Roosevelt, several first editions, and two of those were signed Ernest Hemingway’s: Old Man and the Sea, and For Whom the Bell Tolls. Ta-Nehisi Coates, We Were Eight Years in Power, was on his nightstand. He had a basic flat-screen TV, but he didn’t own a cell phone, computer, stereo or clock radio. Even before flying to Florida, I had begun to recalibrate my impression of Uncle Jimmy, especially when I learned that his car had been sold, and it was a silver BMW with Cayenne red interior—very racy.  

On day two, we drove our rented economy car from our hotel to Uncle Jimmy’s condo for a second day of sifting and discovery. He owned unit #22, so we parked in the stall with that number affixed to the tire stop. Only a narrow walkway separated the carport from the front doors of the ground level units. No sooner had we stepped from the car than a bony-fingered woman appeared before us in her terrycloth slippers and faded house dress. This neighbor was no apple doll. Her hair and skin were of the same ashcan hue. Her wrinkles draped over a facial musculature that seemed frozen in perpetual anger.

“He didn’t park there,” she squawked with decrepit vocal cords. “He parked in 38.”

This information struck me as neither friendly nor helpful. She was a bossy biddy that had nothing better to do than monitor the limited comings and goings of a nearly empty parking lot. Stall #38 was unoccupied, and it was closer to the stairwell, but we weren’t about to take another person’s parking place, regardless of what Uncle Jimmy had arranged.

On paper, we were the new owners of unit #22, but it didn’t feel that way. I saw us through that busybody’s eyes; we were interlopers. She knew exactly what we were doing there, clearing out the condo. She would have known Uncle Jimmy far better than we did, and I envied her that. The displeasure she directed our way chafed at a sensitivity I almost couldn’t acknowledge. We had done nothing to deserve Uncle Jimmy’s gifts, and yet there we were, beneficiaries. The more time I spent in his home, the more I wished our connection had been stronger. He became more alive to me in death than he ever had been in life. Grief was a tide rising.

We volunteered to move the car, but she dismissed that offer. “No, don’t bother. But he didn’t park there.”

Full of my own judgments, I curled my lip at the chronic malcontent, certain she wasn’t looking.

It was only as she turned to go back behind her closed door that I caught sight of her face shifting, collapsing in on itself, cinching closed like a drawstring purse, squeezing her eyes shut to prevent tears from leaking out.

“I’m sorry about your uncle,” she said in a small voice. “He was my friend.”

Aunt Puss

“Mommy, what’s wrong?” That was the question that caused Cat’s mother to dart for the bathroom and slam the door.
Stop there. Freeze the frame. What just happened?
The year was 1965. Cat had not yet started kindergarten when her aunt, her Aunt Puss, her mother’s sister, had just died. Aunt Puss had been sick and under hospital supervision for some time. On that sad day back in 1965, at the sight of her mother’s teary distress, in a reversal of roles where the child initiated care giving, Cat wanted to comfort her anguished mother. The little one had come to expect that any boo-boo, any hurt that caused tears, would be met with care and those concern-filled words: “What’s wrong?” That phrase had been better than the biggest teddy bear for bringing palliative relief. Her mother’s tender affection could soften pains both big and small. So rather than the usual dynamic, which was to receive nurture, Cat endeavored to offer it. Without giving it a moment’s thought, to her grief stricken mother, Cat spoke those gently sympathetic words: “Mommy, what’s wrong?”
But at that, her mother had bolted. Rather than bringing them close, Cat had been pushed away. What had been meant to console, actually antagonized. Her mother’s departure was so abrupt, that Cat became frightened. The emotional tether that the two shared was suddenly called into question, their bond strained beyond recognition. It was instantaneous and dramatic; Cat’s mother was un-reachable. Surely, Cat concluded, as children always do, she had done something wrong. And there, a feeling of isolation and shame stuck, a child’s moment frozen in time, sealed and delivered to the darkest snow cave of her little girl heart.
What happened next prevented mother and daughter from ever revisiting that unpleasant incident again. Not long after it had occurred, Cat and her mother were in a hideous car accident. Cat survived, but her mother hadn’t.
“I have a shut out story for you,” Cat said to me recently, almost fifty-five years later. It was then that she proceeded to tell about the day her Aunt Puss had died. “I’ve never talked about this before. I haven’t ever even thought about it. It just came back to me now. It was the first thing that popped into my head when you mentioned shut out stories. Wow. Just wow.” Cat seemed to survey the details of that long-ago day as if a light had been switched on a three-dimensional diorama. “I remember just starring at the doorknob. I was still so little that I looked up at it from where I was standing. I remember that doorknob was smaller than normal and more ornate. ”
I asked Cat what she thought would happen if life had turned out differently. Did she think she and her mother ever would have talked about that sad day? She responded emphatically that she thought they would. I then asked her what she imagined her mother might have said about it.
“Maybe she would have said that she was so upset and didn’t want her tears to scare me.” Cat told me that whenever people would talk to her about her mother, they would say, “Your mother was always happy. She always had a smile on her face.” We then talked about how her mother could possibly have been afraid of her own despondency. “Maybe she didn’t want to show her daughter how ugly she felt, how deeply sad she was. She had to close herself up, close herself off behind that door. I’m sure she didn’t mean to hurt me. She meant to protect me. Plus, it was all probably too much for her, living up to people’s expectation that she always be happy.”

Grandfather Was What!?

When I began talking about shut out stories, it didn’t take but a minute before the person I was talking to could come up with a shut out story of their own.

Elizabeth, a mature woman from England, told me about her being a precocious child and wanting to know why her grandmother’s last name didn’t match her father’s last name. Nobody would tell her anything about her paternal grandfather. Her father had died in the war, WWII, fighting as a soldier for the British Army, and her mother just would not answer any questions on the subject. Whenever Elizabeth would bring it up, faces would go sour, and she’d be told to drop it. The subject would change or her mother would abruptly leave the room. Well, Elizabeth wouldn’t drop it. The man was her blood; she felt she had every right to know about him. She couldn’t fathom why he would be an unspeakable subject. As she matured, her imagination conjured countless dire scenarios to justify her family’s stonewalling. Was he captured in the war? A deserter? A convicted felon? A murderer, rapist or thief? Dead or alive, in the grave or in prison, she didn’t know.

Again, being intelligent and clever, Elizabeth would argue with her mother, and frequently those fights would include taunts to spill the beans about Granddad. The cheekier Elizabeth got, the less inclined her mother became to explain her position. The standoff was infuriating for both of them.

It wasn’t until Elizabeth’s mother died and there was only one remaining relative, an auntie, that she finally got her answer. She asked her auntie to please, please tell her what she knew. Why could they not talk about her paternal grandfather? The elderly aunt then agreed to tell her what she knew. She made a pot of tea and set the stage for a dramatic reveal. Prepared to break the distressing news, Auntie sat next to Elizabeth, lowered her voice, and said, “Okay dear, I’ll tell you. Your grandfather was Irish.”  

Sing Along

Helen, when I asked her if she had a shut out story, it took a bit for her to come up with this one, but then she said she could recall it as if it had just occurred. She told me about when she was a little girl, and it was before televisions were in every household. Back then, her family, for entertainment, would gather around the piano and sing together. One evening, at some point, her parents began singing a song that Helen didn’t know. Her parents were laughing and having a terrific time belting out one of their oldies. In the middle of this delightful tableau, Little Helen suddenly felt left out and burst into inconsolable tears.

Kibbutz 1968

It was 1968, the year after the 6 Day War: a conflict between Arab states and Israel; a war that had been smoldering in the wings for years after Israel was first declared to have sovereign nation status in 1948— coincidentally, the year of my birth. In ’68, mines littered the landscape and there were daily reports of children picking them up, flinging them aloft and losing a limb in the process.

I was living at home with my parents in The Avenues, and in my first year at San Francisco State College. I had yet to decide a major. I was biking to class most days. My hair was long and blond—a cross between folk singer and surfer. Patchouli, cannabis and incense were the aromas of the day. My peers were batting around alternative life styles. I had inhaled marijuana and though I coughed violently the first few times, I mastered the task, learning how to mask the distinctive scent with spearmint gum and toothpaste.  The ever-stoned Japanese gardener on campus wore a small round mirror in the middle of his forehead as a reminder for us all to look within. Initially, I may have snickered, but I know it frightened me. I was, in fact, more comfortable skimming the surface of my soul, rather than excavating the interior.

I was curious, vulnerable, and immortal; a trinity of trouble. I felt that the drug influence was at odds with my educational pursuits, and while I had always wanted to go to college, that goal in and of itself did not make an ambition. I felt equally threatened and intrigued by the counter-culture as it slapped like waves against my plans for a degree.

My old friend from elementary school was also in her first year at SF State.

Cella’s parents had migrated from Poland in search of religious and political freedom. Cella was the first of her family to attend college. She, too, had recently affixed a mirror on the forehead which she removed before returning to the home she still shared with her parents. Like mine, her parents were increasingly concerned about their daughter’s ability to straddle independence and higher education. Together, Cella and I would attend more campus events than classes. We were both receptive and curious -- as vulnerable as pollen on flowers. Tribes of new friends formed while sharing joints and dense discussions about existence, begging newly formed questions about life, purpose and the meaning of fulfillment.

It was at precisely this time that Scholomo Carlabach, a folk singer, rabbi, and spiritual leader, was touring college campuses for potential recruits to the Kibbutz life. I had heard of the Kibbutz and associated it with living off the land. I knew that the Kibbutz was basically a farm. The Hebrew word for “communal settlement” is Kibbutz. The concept of this rural community dedicated to “mutual aid and social justice,” as Carlabach put it, sounded progressive and egalitarian. My friend and I were thrilled with what these inspirational farmers accomplished: transforming dry barren desert land into prosperous fields and orchards. Tilling the soil and tending crops sounded romantic and healthy. It would be a drug-free environment with no partying or late nights; no seeking higher truth through substances. We were 19. Once we renewed our passports, we took a leave from school and were in route to Tel Aviv. After the foggy San Francisco climate, Israel’s heat felt oppressive. I wore my blond hair in braids. Fair-haired, I stood out among the Sephardic and Ashkenazi, and I worried that I came across as more Aryan than American. In some ways, my looks made me feel novel and different, but I also felt like a complete outsider peaking in the window, hoping for a warm welcome.

Cella and I were assigned to a large Kibbutz in Naot Mordechai, Upper Galilee, with miles and miles of apples and grape orchards. It was a self-sufficient community with childcare, kitchen and laundry facilities and a small warehouse where the fruit was stored and cardboard boxes were constructed. Despite a lifetime of chaffing against rules and restriction, I relished the rigid routines the Kibbutz imposed: (up in the trees at a chilly 4 AM, to pick fruit before the sun claimed the entire sky, breakfast was at 6:30, and then back to the trees until 11:30 lunch.

I had mastered operating the apple-picking machine. Surrounded by 8 baskets affixed to this contraption, I would stand in its center and push a lever to grab the fruit. When the machine stopped functioned, which happened frequently, I’d simply wait until break time when the lead would come to my aid.

 On the weekends, I did my laundry in one of the industrial-sized gray cement tubs that lined the walls of the wash-house. It was a short walk from the bunkhouse to the laundry room, but the sun was bright and heat was pressing down on my head. I looked forward to the windowless washroom where it would be cool and quiet. As I opened the door, a whoosh of hot air poured into the dark space.

Two older women were standing side by side at neighboring sinks. Their tanned arms were immersed up to their elbows in sudsy water. For an instant, I saw the inner side of one of the women’s arms. Five numerals had been indelibly inked to her skin, the serial number still legible. During the Holocaust, tattoos were only performed in one location, and that location was Auschwitz. For that moment in the washroom, I caught sight of history. And what did they see? A tall, blonde-braided enemy; an entitled girl invading their space and occupying their new homeland? Whatever it was, they looked at each other, and, without a word, left their clothes in the sinks and walked out. Their reaction left me stunned and feeling as though I had been a septic shock to their senses. I was that which should be fled from, I was the American Aryan on Israeli soil. I was a painful flash of their worst memories, a reminder of forced labor in coalmines, stone quarries, and, ironically, farms. I was a reminder of family separation and slow starvation.

Wordlessly, they abandoned their clothes and left me alone to look within.

Haiku For Diane

Diane was the kind of friend who made you feel seen. She had a gift, a magnetism that made you want to tell her your deepest thoughts. Her laugh was infectious, and when we laughed to the point of tears running down out cheeks, it could be over some of our most painful moments.

At her memorial of life service, her husband gave the guests a book of his haiku. He had written them to her, and for her, over the course of their relationship, starting when he would leave them on her windshield in their early courting. He told the assembled friends that he had read the courtship poems to her “in toto, the week before she died.” With his permission, I can share a few of his later (post illness) poems here.

This selection speaks to the ineffable partition that exists between life and death. They address the deep grief of separation.

Thank you Gerry Snedaker.

Sleep

Tonight, I couldn’t sleep.

Had a scotch, had a smoke, played guitar.

Wondered where you have gone.

Poof

You were beautifully

dressed. The mortuary transporters

came. Poof, whoosh, you were gone.

Slap Me

I told Sophie that if

I ever tell someone that I’m “fine”

she should just slap me—hard.

Big Fat No

“That would be a big fat

no!” you said to Becky from Hospice.

We smiled and laughed and laughed.

Dark

Sometimes I feel okay.

Sometimes I’m a lump of mush in a

bowl. Lifeless. In the dark.

Paintings

I straighten the paintings

on the wall. Then I straighten them once

more. They all look crooked.

Kind Of Blue

Miles Davis. “Kind of Blue”.

“So What.” I’ll tell you so what. It hurts.

A real big kind of blue.

Bookends

A beginning - an end.

Joys, love, pains and sorrows in between.

Life inside the bookends.

Gone

You are gone. Are you gone?

Gone where? Not far? Not near? Do you know?

I don’t know. I’m confused.

Valentines Day

I will buy you a gift

for Valentines Day even though you

are not here. It’s for me.