Martin Snapp

Do That Crazy Hand Jive!

2012-01-23T15:17:00.000-08:00

Berkeley - and the world - lost a giant of rhythm and blues when Johnny Otis died on Jan. 17, just two weeks after his 91st birthday.
It would take 10 columns to list all his accomplishments. But here's a short list of some of the musical legends he discovered: Jackie Wilson, Hank Ballard, Big Mama Thornton, the Robins (who later became famous as the Coasters), Esther Phillips (whom he billed as "Little Esther") and the great Etta James, who, sadly, died three days after he did.
When he was inducted into the Rock'n'Roll Hall of Fame in 1994, Etta called him "my guru."
Johnny produced and played drums on Big Mama Thornton's original (and still the best) version of "Hound Dog," wrote "Every Beat Of My Heart" for Gladys Knight and the Pips, and played several instruments on Charles Brown's classic "Driftin' Blues."
In 1958 he had a Top 10 hit of his own with "Willie And The Hand Jive," the saga of "a cat named Way-Out Willie" who had "a cool little chick named Rockin' Millie," sung to the distinctive "shave-and-a-haircut-two-bits" rhythm pioneered by Bo Diddley.
The son of Greek immigrants, Johnny was born Ioannis Alexandres Veliotes on Dec. 28, 1921, and grew up in the largely African American section of Southwest Berkeley.
It didn't take long for young Ioannis to fall in love with everything about black culture, especially the music. And he made a conscious choice to live his life, both personally and professionally, as an African American.
He shortened his name to Johnny Otis and never looked back.
"Genetically, I'm pure Greek," he told the San Jose Mercury News in 1994. "Psychologically, environmentally, culturally, by choice, I'm a member of the black community."
Keep in mind that when Johnny was growing up, Berkeley was still rigidly segregated. If you were black, you didn't dare venture into certain sections of town after dark. Heck, Berkeley didn't desegregate its schools until 1968!
But though African Americans were geographically relegated to the flatlands, they had the peace of mind that comes with occupying the moral high ground. And Johnny found that very attractive.
Although he never stopped performing - often playing with his children and grandchildren - more and more of his energy was spent on issues of civil rights and social justice.
He served as chief of staff for Mervyn Dymally, California's first black Lieutenant Governor, and ran unsuccessfully for state senate. (He probably would have won if he hadn't insisted on listing his real name on the ballot instead of "Johnny Otis.")
In 1968 he wrote his first book, "Listen to the Lambs," about the Watts riots. In the 1970s he became an ordained minister and, although he joked about being "Reverend Hand Jive," he took his ministry seriously and devoted a lot of time to feeding and sheltering the homeless.
I had the honor of interviewing him once during the 1980s. We had lunch at Mel's Diner - his treat - and he couldn't have been nicer. He was a truly humble guy who took his music seriously, but not himself.
And he was the first to acknowledge that he wasn't even the most famous member of the Veliotes family. That distinction goes to his little brother, Nick - aka Ambassador Nicholas Veliotes, perhaps the most distinguished American diplomat of his generation.
Nick was Jimmy Carter's ambassador to Jordan and Ronald Reagan's ambassador to Egypt. In fact, wherever there was a hot spot, presidents of either party would send Nick there to cool things down. He had a knack for bringing people together.
Come to think of it, so did Johnny.

Happy twenty-twelve!

2012-01-16T12:45:00.001-08:00

OK, now that we're in the year 2012, could we please call it by its right name?
Not "two-thousand-twelve," but "twenty-twelve."
I know we're in a brand-new millennium, so I've kept quiet for more than a decade while people persisted in saying, "two-thousand-one," "two-thousand-two," and so on.
But don't you think it's time we got over it? This nomenclature is getting more awkward with each passing year.
Just imagine what a pain it's going to be a hundred years from now. Do we really want our descendants struggling with "two-thousand-one-hundred-twelve" instead of "twenty-one-twelve?"
This problem never cropped up during the last millennium. When our ancestors talked about the year of the Declaration of Independence, they said, "seventeen-seventy-six," not "one-thousand-seven-hundred-seventy-six."
Pearl Harbor was attacked in "nineteen-forty-one," not "one-thousand-nine-hundred-forty-one." And JFK was killed in "nineteen-sixty-three," not "one-thousand-nine-hundred-sixty-three."
The rot started back in 1968 (note: "nineteen-sixty-eight," not "one-thousand-nine-hundred-sixty-eight"), when the classic sci-fi flick, "2001: A Space Odyssey," was released.
To the day he died, Arthur C. Clark, the guy who wrote the screenplay (and the novel on which it was based), kept insisting it should be pronounced "twenty-oh-one," not "two-thousand-one," but nobody listened to him. And a bad habit began.
By the time we got to 2000, we were already conditioned to say "two-thousand." It was short and convenient.
But the name has been getting more awkward with each passing year. Now I wince every night when I turn on "The Daily Show" and hear the announcer intone, "January twentieth, two-thousand-twelve."
I'm probably a lonely voice crying in vain, but mark my words: If we don't wise up soon, we're all going to end up with twisted tongues.
And as long as I'm playing language cop, here's a wag of the finger to Rick Perry, who said in a in a recent GOP presidential debate that Iran would invade Iraq "literally at the speed of light."
Sorry, Rick. According to Newton and Einstein, nothing travels "literally" at the speed of light except light itself. (Of course, he's skeptical about Darwin's theory, so maybe he doubts Newton and Einstein, too.)
The word Gov. Perry was searching for is "figuratively," which the Oxford English Dictionary defines as "not literally."
Another bugaboo of mine is "disinterested," which is incorrectly used to mean "uninterested" - i.e., apathetic.
This really sets my fillings on edge because "disinterested" is such a great word in it own right. It means "fair" or "impartial" - i.e., that you don’t have a personal or financial interest in the outcome.
In other words, a good judge should never be uninterested in the trial, but she should always be disinterested.
But my number one pet peeve is "issue," which people use as a synonym for "problem" - as in "I have an issue with that" or "He has some health issues."
No, no, no! An issue is a topic at the heart of a debate, not a difficulty.
A broken leg is a health problem. The president's medical insurance reform is a health issue. See the difference?
One of the beauties of the English language is that it's always changing to reflect current usage. So all these incorrect words probably will become standard English through sheer repetition, just as "like" has become a synonym for "as."
(Oh for the days when "Winston tastes good like a cigarette should" triggered angry letter writing campaigns! For that matter, oh for the days when people still wrote letters!)
But until that happens, please don't use "issue" when you mean to say "problem." I have an issue with that. :-)

Too Much Happiness!

2012-01-09T12:39:00.000-08:00

One of the real treasures of the Bay Area - right up there with Chez Panisse, the cable cars and the Golden Gate Bridge - is The Lamplighters, the world's best Gilbert & Sullivan troupe.
That distinction used to belong to England's D'Oyly Carte Opera Company, which was founded in 1878 by Gilbert and Sullivan themselves with their producer, Richard D'Oyly Carte.
But the D'Oyly Carte company went belly-up in 1982, and since then The Lamplighters have taken their place at the top of the heap.
My evidence? Well, whenever The Lamplighters travel to Buxton, England to compete in the annual International Gilbert & Sullivan Festival, they win first prize.
In 1997 the festival organizers tried an experiment: Since The Lamplighters are so good, they figured the Bay Area must be a hotbed of Gilbert & Sullivan enthusiasm. So that year they held the festival here in Berkeley on the Cal campus.
I was in hog heaven. I live only a few blocks from campus, so I got to see Gilbert & Sullivan companies from all over the world performing morning, noon and night.
But it was almost embarrassing how much better The Lamplighters were than everyone else
Remember when I was complaining last week that some singers simply "park and bark?" That's not what The Lamplighters do.
Yes, the singing is spectacular, but that's just the beginning. A Lamplighters production is more than a staged concert; it's a full-blown theatrical performance.
You know, with actors actually acting instead of standing around, waiting for their turn to sing. Better yet, you can even understand the words.
And that's important, because part of the charm is the way Gilbert used his rapier wit to skewer the sacred cows of Victorian society.
"The Mikado" is an attack on capital punishment. "HMS Pinafore" is about the cruelty of the British class system. "The Pirates of Penzance" is a devastating indictment of the stupidity of war. Comedy isn't funny unless there's hard truth behind it.
But instead of getting all preachy on you, Gilbert always couched his messages inside the most glorious nonsense. As their contemporary, Oscar Wilde, observed, "If you want to tell people the truth, make them laugh, otherwise they'll kill you."
In Gilbert & Sullivan the whole is greater than the sum of its parts, and Gilbert's words are even sharper when they're set to Sullivan's ravishingly lush music.
Not for nothing was Sullivan called "the English Mozart." Exquisite melody after exquisite melody flowed effortlessly from his pen. And they're even more beautiful when set off by Gilbert's deliciously tart lyrics. The net effect is sweet and sour on steroids.
The Lamplighters are celebrating their 60th anniversary, and they're kicking off the year next weekend with a sparkling new production of my favorite, "The Gondoliers," a political satire that was Gilbert and Sullivan's last great masterpiece before they finally split up for good.
(Unfortunately, despite their enormous success they cordially detested each other. They split up many times over the years, only to be talked into giving it another try by Carte, who was understandably reluctant to kill a goose that was laying golden eggs.)
"The Gondoliers" will have three performances at the Novellus Theater at Yerba Buena Center for the Arts in San Francisco next weekend: Friday, Jan. 20 and Saturday, Jan 21 at 8 p.m., and a Sunday matinee on Jan. 22 at 2 p.m.
The following weekend, the show will move to the Lesher Center for the Arts in Walnut Creek: Friday, Jan. 27 and Saturday, Jan 28 at 8 p.m., with a Sunday matinee on Jan. 29 at 2 p.m.
As Tessa (or is it Gianetta? I can never remember which one) says in Act 2, "O, it's too much happiness!"

Sweet Sounds

2012-01-05T19:09:00.000-08:00

It's 6:30 a.m. The alarm clock won't ring for another hour and a half, but 27-year-old mezzo-soprano Jennifer Panara is already awake, thinking about all the things she has to do that day.
At 9 a.m. she's at The Musical Offering, a delightful café/music store in Berkeley where she works as assistant manager. (Hint: Don't miss the Caesar salad. Best in town.)
But that's just her day job. By mid-afternoon she's rushing down to Mountain View, where she'll rehearse with pianist Elena Lavina for a recital of songs by Faure, Debussy, Barber and Schumann that they'll present this Sunday in Palo Alto.
Then it's over to San Francisco for a round of auditions that last until 10 p.m., when her husband, Sascha Gerhards, a PhD student at UC-Davis who shares her love of heavy metal - He took her to a Metallica concert on their first date - picks her up at BART.
The next day she works the 8-to-4 shift at the café, then she races to Livermore for a rehearsal of Gounod's "Romeo et Juliette," which she'll perform with the Livermore Valley Opera next September.
And the days after that are just as hectic. Such is the life of a rising young singer who the music critics say someday will be on a par with her heroes Fredericka Von Stade, Marilyn Horne and Anne Sofie von Otter.
After a recent performance of Mahler's Symphonies No. 3 and 4 with the Philharmonischer Chor Bonn in Germany, one critic called her "a mezzo-soprano of immense brilliance and versatility," while another praised her "virtually ideal tone, flawless interpretation and tender voice."
But what the audience never suspects is that each time she performs, she has to conquer a terrible case of stage fright that has tormented her ever since she was a little girl.
"I'd get anxiety attacks and red in the face," she says. "I was always so nervous that people would ridicule me."
So what gets her over it? The music itself.
Before singing a new piece, she studies obsessively to find out everything she can about it, including watching videos of other singers performing it, looking up the historical context of the plot, and filling notebook after notebook with notes.
Then, when she finally steps out on stage, she tries her best to forget it all.
"You do your best with the musical skills you've honed, and what the composer has given you, and what you've learned working with your colleagues. But when it comes down to it, my best moments have been when I really let go and become a slave to the music," she says.
"I'm not the kind of person who throws caution to the winds in other areas of my life, but doing so when I'm performing has given me confidence and abated my stage freight. But it's necessary to perform organically in the moment. And that's easier said than done."
Some singers just walk on stage, ignore the other musicians and belt out their aria - known in the trade as "park and bark" - but Jennifer thinks they're missing half the fun.
"Music is most enjoyable when it's a collaboration, and that brings me to our recital. Elena is a great collaborator. She doesn't just play, she listens. And that's easier said than done, too."
The recital will take place at 3 p.m. Sunday at the Oshman Family Jewish Community Center, 3921 Fabian Way in Palo Alto.

New Year's Eve? Bah, humbug!

2011-12-29T18:56:00.000-08:00

Remember when I was talking last week about how much I love Christmas?
That's how much I hate New Year's Eve. When the clock strikes midnight, I plan to be fast asleep.
Spare me the sight of those drunken revelers at Times Square screaming their heads off for what is basically a non-event.
VE Day I can understand. VJ Day I can understand. Ditto for election night 2008 and the death of Osama Bin Laden. All of them were real events, and well worth celebrating.
But New Year's Eve is just turning a page in the calendar. What's the big deal?
Besides, until 400 years ago there was no consensus that January 1 should be the beginning of the year. During the Middle Ages, New Year's Day was all over the place: March 25 in England, Easter Sunday in France, and Christmas Day - celebrated on December 15 - in Italy.
When you think about it, January 1 doesn't make much sense. The logical time is spring, when the flowers are blooming, the animals are bearing their young and the farmers are planting their crops. New year, get it?
And that's the way it was for centuries, since the dawn of recorded history. It never occurred to anybody that January 1 might be a good day to begin the year.
So what changed it? Politics.
Back in ancient Rome, the politicians kept fiddling with the calendar, adding several days to each month to extend their terms in office. By Julius Caesar's time, calendar dates were so out of whack with their astronomical benchmarks, he had to let the year 46 B.C. drag on for 445 days to reset the calendar. He began the next year with January 1. (And while he was at it, he named a month - July - after himself.)
Unfortunately, coming so soon after Christmas, New Year's is a huge anticlimax.
Christmas is warm and fuzzy. New Year's Eve is cold and glitzy. Christmas is giving gifts and making children happy. New Year's Eve is drinking and forced bonhomie.
Christmas is about being with the people you love. New Year's Eve is about the haunting fear of being alone. So we distract ourselves by making noise and embracing total strangers.
And who says the next year will necessarily be any better than the last one? It rarely is, and next year doesn't show any signs of being an exception.
We're going into a presidential election year, and I truly fear where the bitterness of the last three years is going to take us.
But there are a few hopeful omens. The retailers had a better Christmas than expected, and charitable giving was also up.
And I'm encouraged by the emergence of the Millennial generation as a political force, although I hope they'll learn from the mistake my generation made in the 1960s and not allow their movement to be hijacked by violent thugs like the Weathermen and the Simbionese Liberation Army in my day or the black-masked anarchists of today.
So, against my better judgment, I'm going to keep my fingers crossed and trust that we can still rise above our recent history and come together for the sake of our country.
Then it really will be a happy new year.
I hope your 2012 is a healthy, happy and prosperous one. And as Mark Twain observed, "Now is the accepted time to make your regular annual good resolutions. Next week you can begin paving hell with them as usual."

Merry Christmas

2011-12-18T15:59:00.000-08:00

(Above: A scene from El Cerrito's annual Christmas display, created by the late Sundar Shadi - another non Christian who loved Christmas)

What do "White Christmas," "Rudolph The Red Nosed Reindeer, "Silver Bells," "I'll Be Home For Christmas," "Sleigh Ride," "Winter Wonderland," "A Holly Jolly Christmas," "Rockin' Around The Christmas Tree," "It's The Most Wonderful Time Of The Year," "Let It Snow! Let it Snow! Let it Snow!" and "You're A Mean One, Mr. Grinch" have in common, aside from the fact that they're Christmas songs?
Answer: They all were written by Jews.
Now, that might seem anomalous to some, but not to me. Christmas has been my favorite holiday since I was a little kid, and I'm a Jew through and through.
And it's not because of the presents. We get them at Hanukkah, which usually occurs around the same time, as it does this year, so that's a wash.
No, the real attraction is the Christmas story itself. Think about it: How many other holidays feature a child as the hero? That's something any kid can identify with.
And even when I was little, I could still appreciate the delicious irony: If only those smug innkeepers knew whom they were turning away!
Now, that story can cut both ways. Cynics might take the moral to be: Before you slam the door in someone's face, make sure they aren't well-connected.
But I prefer to look at it the other way: God is in everyone, so showing kindness to anyone is showing kindness to God him/herself.
I saw a little girl being interviewed on television the other night as she was delivering Christmas cookies to some homebound old people. The reporter asked her what Christmas is all about, and she said, "Being nice to somebody."
Exactly. And that's why Christmas is my favorite holiday.
Mind you, it hasn't always been easy. When I was young, I looked forward to the annual Christmas pageants at school, especially singing those gorgeous Christmas carols like "The Holly And The Ivy," "O Holy Night," and my favorite, "Once In Royal David's City."
But I dreaded the ethical dilemma I would confront whenever we got to the words "Christ the Lord."
What to do? I was sure lightning would strike me dead on the spot if those words passed my lips. On the other hand, no little kid wants to stick out from the crowd.
So I finessed the problem the only way I could think of: I lip-synched.
But otherwise, I embraced all the symbols and trappings of the holiday.
I loved those merry gentlemen, who come to us from England; good King Wenceslas, who comes from the Czech Republic; the Christmas tree, which comes from Germany; and, of course, Santa Claus, who comes from Turkey by way of the Netherlands, then was re-invented in the 19th Century by two Americans - poet Clement Clark Moore, who wrote "A Visit From St. Nicholas" (which begins, "T'was the night before Christmas…"), and cartoonist Thomas Nast, who also came up with the Republican elephant and the Democratic donkey.
And the more recent additions to Christmas lore, like Rudolph and Frosty? Meh. They couldn't carry Santa's sack.
But whatever your religion - or even no religion at all - let me wish you joy this holiday season.
"And so I'm offering this simple phrase/To kids from one to ninety-two/Although it's been said many times, many ways/A very Merry Christmas to you."
Those words from "The Christmas Song" (aka "Chestnuts Roasting On An Open Fire") were written by Mel Torme and Bob Wells.
Two Jewish guys, of course.

Sportsman of the Year

2011-12-11T12:00:00.000-08:00

(Above: Bob with his daughter-in-law, Sarah)

Former Oakland Tribune sports editor Bob Valli, a grizzled vet who mentored generations of scribes, died on Nov. 2 at the age of 80. He started his career on the pigskin beat, later inking stories about hoopsters, keglers, horsehiders and thinclads.
But he would have hated those last two sentences. He despised clichés, especially sports clichés. Woe betide the sportswriter who called a football a "pigskin," a football field a "gridiron," an umpire an "arbiter" or a basketball player a "cager."
"If it's a basketball, call it a basketball!" he would roar. "Not a casaba!"
He was in love with the English language, and he liked it straight, without adornments or affectations. He was a great editor to work for, with an uncanny eye for young talent.
Award-winning sportswriters like Monte Poole and Henry Schulman got their first big break when Bob plucked them out of obscurity and handed them plum assignments. And they have never ceased acknowledging their debt to him.
With his gravely voice and authoritative manner, Bob was the picture of an old school, Oscar Madison-type sportswriter. But he departed from that cliché, too, in one important respect: Unlike many newspapermen of his generation, he was color-blind and gender-blind.
For instance, it wasn't easy being a woman in the newspaper business back in the 1980s, when I first met him. A lot of female reporters and editors felt the sting of resentment daily from the old boy network.
But never from Bob. He treated women with respect because he treated everyone with respect. He didn't know any other way. One female editor who worked with him said, "He was the sweetest man I ever met."
Bob's first assignment as a young reporter was covering a brand-new team called the Oakland Raiders, and he quickly earned every player's affection.
During practices, he would always sit on one particular spot on the sidelines. Once, when he was on vacation, his substitute sat down on that same spot.
The poor guy was immediately surrounded by angry Raiders, led by defensive back Dave Grayson, indignantly demanding to know what he was doing on "Bob's spot."
And could he write! Take his classic description of "The Play," the multi-lateral kickoff return that broke Stanford's heart in the 1982 Big Game: "Kevin Moen has silenced all arguments over which was the greatest Big Game ever played. The California senior started and finished one of the most bizarre last plays in college football history to make the 85th Big Game the undisputed thriller of all time." (And remember, he wrote this on tight deadline.)
Or this: "Steve Martin was acting when he played his role in 'The Jerk.' Billy Martin lived the part."
For many years, Bob was on the committee that selected members to the Pro Football Hall of Fame. It was he, more than anyone else, who was responsible for Al Davis' induction.
Bob was a loving husband, a devoted father and a loyal friend. And he knew more about football than anyone I ever met.
A few years ago, he and I were at Memorial Stadium watching a Cal game.
The Cal quarterback threw four interceptions that day, and each time - before he even let go of the ball! - Bob would say, "Uh oh, that’s gonna be an interception."
Same with penalties. Before the flag was out of the official's pocket, Bob would say, "Number 44 is holding."
Aside from the fact that it was fun to watch a game with one of the world’s nicest guys, it was a rare privilege to get an education from The Maestro.

No Room At The Inn?

2011-12-04T16:32:00.000-08:00

(Above: Father Crespin greeting parishioners after Mass)

What do you do when the most popular family on the block looks like it's headed toward divorce?
It's really none of your business, so the best you can do is say a prayer that they somehow can work it out.
That's the situation my neighbors and I find ourselves in. But in our case, the "family" isn't a nuclear family. It's a church: St. Joseph the Worker in downtown Berkeley. It's the anchor of our neighborhood, even for non-Catholics like me.
The church has been at the center of whatever has been going on ever since its founding in 1877, from housing and feeding refugees fleeing the 1906 San Francisco earthquake to providing meeting space for labor organizers, peace advocates and civil rights workers including Cesar Chavez, who used St. Joseph's as a safe house whenever his life was threatened.
And I can't tell you how much I look forward every Sunday to walking by St. Joseph's just as Mass is letting out and watching all those happy people spilling out onto its front steps. It makes my day every time.
In recent years, St. Joseph's was run by Rev. George Crespin and the late Rev. Bill O'Donnell, known to one and all as Father Bill. They were a perfect tag team.
Father Bill did the social justice work, from lobbying for improvements in the public schools to getting arrested more than 200 times at anti-war and pro-civil rights demonstrations.
Meanwhile, Crespin did the pastoral work. He was the guy you could always count on for help when your mother was sick, or your sister was pregnant, or your nephew was in trouble with the cops.
In recent years, the ethnic makeup of the parish has become more and more Latino, as immigrants from Latin America settled in the area. And Crespin, who speaks flawless Spanish, was especially dear to them.
But time moves on. Father Bill died in 2004, and Crespin went into semi-retirement two years later, although still living in the rectory and performing priestly functions.
Two years ago, a new priest named John Direen was appointed to take over St. Joseph's. From the start, tension began simmering between him and some parishioners.
Among their complaints: firing the members of the pastoral council, suspending the council's Latino counterpart, the Consejo Latino, and withdrawing meeting space for the parish's long-standing social justice committee.
The final straw came last July, when he evicted Crespin from the rectory.
Since then, a sizable group of parishioners has been holding a silent vigil outside the church every Sunday morning.
Direen responded by announcing that the protestors would be barred from serving as ushers, lectors or Eucharistic ministers, as well as from serving on any parish committees.
And who knows where it will end? All I know is that St. Joseph's is a sad and lonely place to walk past these days.
There are no villains in this story. Both sides truly love the Church, even if they have different visions of what it can be. It's a clash of cultures made worse by mutual misunderstanding.
As I said, it's not my business to meddle in a family quarrel. But I can wish them peace and reconciliation this Christmas season.
There's an old Mexican tradition called La Posada that takes place at this time of year. People go from door to door, impersonating Joseph and Mary, and ask to be let in from the cold.
The first seven or eight houses always turn them away. But at the final house they are welcomed inside and given hot chocolate and Mexican bread.
And that's what I hope for St. Joseph's this Christmas. I hope everyone finds room at the inn.

Dear Santa

2011-12-04T12:13:00.000-08:00

"Dear Santa, It's 7:37 on November 27th, 2011. I know it's early, but I don't think anyone will give me a Radica Password Journal. Please send me one in your jolly ol' ho-ho-ho spirit. Merry Christmas, Tai-Ge. P.S. Be jolly!" (Oakland)

"Dear Santa, I am sorry for the times I was bad, and that was a few times. I am sorry about my bad grades in science and history. Can I please have some presents anyway? Love, Heenapreet." (Fairfield)

"Dear Santa, My wish for Christmas still has not come. I demand an explanation! Please send my gift with four AAA batteries this week or I start taking out elfs! Sincerely, Disappointed." (San Jose)

Once upon a time, letters like these ended up in the post office's equivalent of Siberia instead of the North Pole.
But 25 years ago, Elma Ramiriez, Manager of Consumer Affairs for the Bay Valley Postal District, which stretches from Carmel to Napa, happened upon a pile of letters that were about to be thrown out, and they broke her heart.
"They were so touching, we just couldn't bring ourselves to throw them in the dead letter file," she said. "We thought, 'Somebody ought to answer them!'"
That first year, she and her co-workers answered as many as they could. But as word got around, other postmasters throughout Northern California started sending her their Santa letters, and it was clear she was going to need help.
So she turned to us, the public. And it's been a beloved Bay Area holiday tradition ever since
Ramirez retired last spring. But her successor, MaryGrace Cruz, is keeping up the good work.
Currently, she and and her fellow elves - Janet Ezell, Toni Harmon, David Thompson, Brenda Presley, Timothy Wong, Ferdinand Sutanto, Margarita Cristobal and Carmen Boueche and Nina Bopharat Tan - are sorting through piles of incoming letters and putting them in two huge boxes: one labeled "Needy," the other labeled "Greedy."
Every year, the public is invited to read as many as they like and answer them. (See the sidebar for details on how to participate.) And every year, we print the Neediest and Greediest.
So what are our children thinking? Let's ask them:

"Dear Santa, You are awesome! Hooray for Santa! I'm thankful for you because you make Christmas speshul! Happy Christmas, Santa! From Maya." (Oakland)

"Dear Santa, I want you to know that I am going to leave you a treasure in my room in return for the Christmas gifts. Shhhhhhhhhhh! You can't know what it is, and I promise you're going to love it! Bye! Jaeden." (Antioch)

"Dear Santa, I hope you and your family are OK. I hope you will bring something for my two sisters this Christmas because my mom does not have a job. My dad works part time only. I'm 9 years old and I need warm clothes. Shoes size 2. My 14-year-old sister, she's size L. My 18-months-old baby sister needs warm clothes and baby toys. Sincerely, Cristian." (Oakland)

"Dear Santa, I would like a glass angel because they are pretty and sparkly. I will be respectful and responsible. I promise. P.S. I'll have real good cookies for you. Love, Colm (written by mom)." (Berkeley)

"Dear Santa, My favorite holiday is Christmas! I mostly enjoy having my cousins over, I don't care if I do not get the presents I asked for. Just do your best. Thank you, Xavier." (Moraga)

"Dear Santa, Why do you have help from the elves? I hope I can see you on a sled. Do you like cookies and milk? I hope you bring me something to enjoy. Love, Emma." (San Jose)

"Dear Santa, I'm so happy I am saying a hello to you. I'm also happy that you exist because that's how you can help us. This year our mom can't give us nothing because she lost her job and you're the only hope I have. I would love some boots because the ones I have are ripped and I can't keep them together with glue any more. If you can I will be so grateful. And if not, I'll still be happy for just saying a hello to you. Sincerely, Ingrid." (Oakland)

"Dear Santa, I really like Harry Potter and Twilight. So could you get me lots of Twilight and HP stuff please? I believe in you! From Madison." (Pleasanton)

"Dear Santa, I wish for my mother's and father's healthyness. I also wish for clothes and shoes. If my wishes come true, I would be so happy. Sincerely, Sokhun." (Hayward)

"Dear Santa, Hello. I get good grades, not the best but I get Bs. I have always wanted an iPod Touch, but I couldn't get one because of the immigration status my parents are in. I hope to get this because I have always wanted one. Please and thank you, Sincerely, Diego." (Oakland)

"Dear Santa, I want a dog for Christmas. I will tell you the other things later. Love, Julius." (El Cerrito)

"Dear Santa, I am 5 years old. I haven't learned to write yet so I'm having someone help me write this letter. I am a very good girl. I love all my family. There's not much for me to say because I am only 5. Merry Christmas, Aytza." (Oakland)

"Dear Santa, Me and Esher are SO into vampires! And I have a question for you. Am I a real vampire? What am I missing? Please send a letter back. Your BEST friend, Amelia." (Albany)

"Dear Santa, I have been really good! I've been doing all my homework! Hope you are good, too. Until next time, Mila." (San Jose)

"Dear Santa, Will you bring me an airplane toy please? Because I like planes. I'd like you to sit in a chair and my house and eat cookies. Thank you, Santa. Love, Mickey." (Berkeley)

"Dear Santa, I'm 8 years old. I love you, Santa. Love, Jatijah." (Castro Valley)

"Gavin's and Bryan's Gift List: 1. Pure Fun 14-foot enclosure for trampoline. 2. Power wheels Fischer-Price Cadillac Hybrid Escalade-grey. Please! Please! Please!" (Oakland)

"Dear Santa, I want a jump rope and a Rapunzel doll and I love you, Santa. Love, Maegan." (Union City)

"Dear Santa Claus, Hi! My name is Maija. (Yeah, I know it's a whimsical and unique name, LOL.) I would like a Visa gift card. That way, I can buy things on the Internet without asking my parents. Thank you, Maija." (Richmond)

"Warning: Please do not read if not Santa!" (So, of course, we didn't read it.)

And finally, a letter from a desperate mom:

"Dear Santa, I have a six year old daughter who has had a very hard year. She and I had to leave our house in May due to domestic violence. We only took a bag of clothes and had to leave everything else. My daughter lost everything - her home, her toys, her stuff, her friends. She told me she'd like to have a bike like the one she had to leave behind. She is a really good girl and deserves to have a good Christmas. If you can help her, I would appreciate it more than you know. Thank you, Melanie." (Oakland)

SIDEBAR
How You Can Help

You, too, can make the holidays a little brighter for a needy child. Just visit Santa's Mail Room at the downtown Oakland Post Office, 201 13th Street (corner of 13th & Alice), Room 222, between 9 a.m. and 3 p.m. from now until Dec. 21, and the friendly elves will give you as many letters as you want.
"You don't necessarily have to send a present," says chief elf MaryGrace Cruz. "Often a kind word is enough. These kids are just glad to know that someone cares."
But, of course, if you're also moved to enclose a gift, nobody's going to stop you.
And if you'd like your own child to receive a letter from Santa, that can be arranged, too. Just write a letter to your child and put it in a stamped envelope addressed to your child.
Then stick the envelope inside another one addressed to North Pole Holiday Postmark, Postmaster, 4141 Postmark Dr, Anchorage, AK 99530-9998. (Yes, Santa has his own zip code.)
A special unit at the Anchorage Post Office will stamp your child's letter with a cancellation reading "North Pole" and mail it back.
Merry Christmas!

Christmas Comes To El Cerrito

2011-12-01T12:10:00.001-08:00

Once upon a time there was a man named Sundar Shadi who came to this country from India in 1921 and settled in El Cerrito.
He got a master's degree in horticulture from Cal, but because of prejudice against immigrants the only job he could get was pumping gas.
Instead of complaining he worked hard, saved his money, made some smart investments, and retired a moderately wealthy man at age 50 in 1949.
That's when he began his true calling. That Christmas, his neighbors awoke to find a detailed recreation of the entire town of Bethlehem in his front yard - wise men, angels, doves, sheep, lambs, shepherds, cows, horses, donkeys, camels, the works. Each figure was lovingly created out of papier-mache and plaster of paris by Mr. Shadi himself.
He did it again every year after that, adding more figures each year, until failing eyesight forced him to call it quits in 1997.
The community quickly took the Christmas display to heart. Little kids grew up and brought their own kids, and then their grandkids, to see it.
Charter busses full of tourists came from as far away as San Jose and Sacramento - more than 70,000 every year.
For many people, Mr. Shadi WAS Christmas. He was a real-life Santa Claus who gave us something more precious than toys: the true spirit of the holiday.
The funny thing was that he wasn't a Christian himself. He was a Sikh. He chose a Christmas display because that was the way he could say "I love you" in a language we could understand.
Mr. Shadi died in 2002 at age 101. And then something wonderful happened. The people of El Cerrito refused to let his legacy die.
Under the leadership of former Mayor Jane Bartke, they restored the Shadi sculptures, which had deteriorated badly. That Holiday season the Christmas display made a triumphant return at the corner of Moeser and Seaview. And it's been there every Holiday season since.
But there's no guarantee it will be there next year. Bartke and her helpers - Gordon White, Richard Ritz, Jackson Lusk and Bartke's husband, Rich - are all in their 70s, and it's only a matter of time before they can't do it anymore.
Just as they stepped up 10 years ago, we need a new generation to step up and take over from them.
If you want to become part of this tradition, there's still time to learn the ropes this year because the Christmas display won't go up until Dec. 17. (It will remain there until Dec. 27.) Call Bartke at 510-235-1315, and she'll put you to work.
Financial help is always needed, too, because papier-mâché deteriorates quickly from the moisture, even though the sculptures are outdoors for only 10 days.
You can "adopt" the figure of your choice. A Wise Man (camel included) goes for $500, a shepherd for $350, and sheep are a real steal at only $25. Send a tax-deductible check to the El Cerrito Community Foundation, Inc., P. O. Box 324, El Cerrito CA 94530.
But more than money, what they really want is you.
This beloved Holiday tradition can go on for hundreds of years. Or it can go away tomorrow, and after a generation nobody will remember.
It's up to you, El Cerritans.

Slimebags? Or Patriots?

2011-11-25T10:05:00.001-08:00

Last week, a letter to the editor in the Berkeley Voice called the Occupy protesters "slimebags," adding, "Water canons, stun guns, clubbing and arrests must be used on these freedom violators, with full force and with no possible legal actions against our police officers."
I couldn't agree more. Who do these kids think they are?
I watched the police break up the Occupy Cal encampment on the UC campus, and I was shocked by the violence with which the protestors attacked the police truncheons with their stomachs.
The chancellor had it absolutely right when he said, "It is unfortunate that some protesters chose to obstruct the police by linking arms and forming a human chain to prevent the police from gaining access to the tents. This is not non-violent civil disobedience."
Right on! Violent arm-linking has been an intimidation tactic at least since the days of those infamous terrorists Mohandas Gandhi and Martin Luther King. And, as Stephen Colbert pointed out, don't forget Occupy Oz, when Dorothy, the Scarecrow, the Tin Woodman and the Cowardly Lion linked arms as they skipped down the Yellow Brick Road on their way to murder a witch.
Then, a week later, an overwhelming mob of 12 students at UC Davis protested the events at Cal by sitting down, linking arms (that violent tactic again) and attacking the police tear gas canisters with their faces.
There's been some criticism of the police actions in that incident, and a handful of people - only 80,000 - have signed a petition calling for the chancellor to resign. But as Fox News' Megyn Kelly pointed out, "Pepper spray is a food product, essentially," just like those other yummy snacks, mustard gas and Agent Orange.
In fact, the restraint shown by the authorities has been admirable. It reminds me of the so-called Civil Rights marches of the 1960s, when the Birmingham police magnanimously provided some cute little dogs for the demonstrators to play with.
And, because Birmingham tends to get hot in the summertime, the police, no doubt worried that some of the demonstrators might get heat stroke, cooled them off by spraying them with fire hoses.
The entire University of California system is beset by tight budgets, and you might be wondering, as I did, where the money came from to buy such expensive riot equipment and give the campus cops their riot control training.
It turns out that the funding was provided by the Department of Homeland Security, which is also good news.
I don't know about you, but I'm sure relieved that Homeland Security is focusing on student protestors - but not all student protestors; the ones who rioted at Penn State are OK - instead of wasting their time chasing Al Qaeda and Timothy McVeigh wannabes.
It might be a long struggle, folks, but don't despair. The day will come when people think twice before speaking their minds; and government of the corporations, by the corporations and for the corporations shall not perish from the earth.
We shall overcome.

Toy Story

2011-11-23T08:54:00.000-08:00

Memo to Santa: Interactive toys are in this Christmas, passive toys are out.
So says Devin McDonald, co-owner (with his life and business partner, Jenny Stevenson) of Mr. Mopps' in Berkeley, one of the last of the old-fashioned neighborhood toy stores.
"Kids love to fill in the gaps with their own imagination," he says. "Just give them an open-ended toy, and they'll take it from there."
Which means out with toys where you all you do is push a button and watch them do their thing. And in with toys that you can actually play with. For instance:
* Do-it-yourself kits such as Make Your Own Friendship Bracelet and Make Your Own Monster Doll (with extra eyeballs in case you want to give him four eyes, or even six).
* Spy kits, which include ink pad, dusting powder & brush (for detecting fingerprints), magnifying glass, mirror and fingerprint files.
* Educational jigsaw puzzles such as Great Inventors, which spotlights some inventors you know (Edison, Guttenberg, Wozniak and Jobs) and some you've probably never heard of (Ts'ai Lun, who invented paper, Bartolomeo Cristofori, who invented the piano, and Aryabhata, who invented the concept of zero).
A pretty good sign of an interactive toy is that it doesn't need a battery.
But there are exceptions. Moon In My Room is a 3-D lunar landscape that you hang on your bedroom wall, a remote control that lets you put the Moon through all 12 phases, and a CD audio tour of the Moon. Way cool.
Then there's the Anti-Monster Flashlight, "guaranteed to scare away any unwanted monsters that might be hiding in your room, under your bed or behind the curtains. Also effective against ghosts, witches, warlocks, werewolves, zombies and clowns."
Meanwhile, doll houses have been re-invented as wooden play sets, allowing kids to construct an arctic polar glacier (with Eskimos, seal pups, a whale, a walrus and a penguin), King Arthur's castle, or a pirate ship with pirates, cannons, cloth sales, a rum barrel and, of course, a plank!
But the best toys of all are the same ones you loved when you were a kid: finger puppets, building blocks, swings, trampolines, hula-hoops, magnetic dart boards, and board games, including Anti-Monopoly. (Remember, this is Berkeley.)
Mr. Mopps' has been a Mecca for Berkeley children for almost 50 years, most of that time under the ownership of Eugene Yamashita. Several generations of kids grew up and brought their own kids and grandkids to his store.
One of them was Devin, who has been a loyal customer since he was a toddler, when his grandmother took him there and bought him his favorite teddy bear, Mr. Choo-Choo (who, by the way, is still with us, residing on the mantle in Devin and Jenny's living room).
When Yamashita retired a couple of years ago, he turned down several higher offers and sold the place to Devin and Jenny because he felt they were the best ones to continue his tradition.
Old-fashioned toy stores like Mr. Mopps' are rapidly becoming an endangered species. But there are still a few left, including The Magic Leaf at Children's Fairyland, the ToyHouse in Montclair, Five Little Monkeys in Albany, Rockridge Kids in Rockridge, Sweet Dreams in the Elmwood, and Toy Safari in Alameda.
Check them out instead of the giant Internet and chain stores this holiday season.

Good Guy And Bad Guy

2011-11-13T17:46:00.001-08:00

Congratulations to Tony La Russa, who has achieved that rarest of feats in sports: Like Jim Brown and Sandy Koufax, he went out on top.
He's one of only two managers - the other is Sparky Anderson - to win World Series with teams in both leagues. He won more games than anybody but John McGraw and Connie Mack. (And Mack owned his team, so he couldn't be fired.)
And in his final season he skippered the Cardinals to come-from-behind wins in both the regular season and the World Series.
But just as John Madden is already becoming more famous for his video games than for his Hall of Fame careers as both a coach and a TV analyst, I think Tony will be better known someday for his work to ease the suffering of animals.
Before he and his wife Elaine founded the Animal Rescue Foundation (ARF, for short), there was no adoption agency for homeless dogs and cats in Contra Costa County except the hopelessly overstretched resources of the county animal shelter. Thousands of cats and dogs who would have been euthanized because of overcrowding are alive today, thanks to them.
But equally important, by going public about his love for animals - something no one else in the sports world had dared to do - Tony made compassion cool. Nowadays it's common to see athletes like Ron Artest and Jason Taylor doing commercials for animal welfare groups. But Tony started it all a quarter-century ago..
I first met Tony 25 years ago, when he was managing the A's. He, Elaine and their daughters, Devon and Bianca, were quietly picketing a business in Walnut Creek because it was selling furs. (It was the girls' idea.)
Then a guy emerged from the store and unleashed a string of obscenities at them, even though Devon and Bianca were both under 10 at the time.
"You blankety-blanks! Take those blankety-blank signs and blankety-blank, blankety blank, blankety blank!"
Suddenly, he stopped. A look of recognition came over his face.
"Hey, you're Tony La Russa! Hey, sign this ball for me, willya?"
Nice guy that he is, Tony signed.
* * *
On the other end of the human spectrum, we have the late Robert Stroud, better known as the Birdman of Alcatraz.
If you've never been to Alcatraz, you really should go. It's absolutely fascinating.
When you arrive, the first people you'll meet will be former prisoners and former guards, all hawking copies of their memoirs.
And they all say the same thing: Contrary to the saintly old man portrayed by Burt Lancaster in the movie, Stroud was the most hated person on The Rock.
He was a brutal murderer and rapist and an avid collector of child pornography. New inmates, especially if they were young and good looking, were quickly pulled aside by an old-timer and warned to give Stroud a wide berth.
Everyone hated him, prisoners and guards alike. But Stroud didn't care. The movie made him famous, and he loved to boast, "When I die, it'll be the front page headline in every newspaper in the world!"
But God has a great sense of humor. Stroud died in his sleep late one night at age 85, and his body was discovered in bed the next day when the guards made their morning rounds.
The date: November 22, 1963.

Go For Broke

2011-11-08T10:56:00.000-08:00

Shig Doi and Lawson Sakai are no heroes. Just ask them, and they'll insist, "I was only doing my job."
The U.S. Army, however, disagrees. It awarded Doi, who lives in Richmond, two Bronze Stars for "heroic and meritorious service" in World War II.
Sakai, who lives in Morgan Hill, was awarded one Bronze Star and four Purple Hearts. He was actually wounded a fifth time, but he refused to let his name put up for another medal because he didn't think his wound was serious enough.
Both men are veterans of the 442nd Regimental Combat Team, a segregated Japanese-American World War II unit whose members were awarded more medals, man for man, than any other unit in American history.
But the most impressive thing of all is that they did this while their own families were imprisoned behind barbed wire back at home in forlorn hellholes euphemistically named "relocation camps." Doi's family was sent to Camp Amache in Colorado; Sakai's sister was sent to Camp Poston in Arizona.
In addition to their individual decorations, the entire 442 was awarded a Congressional Gold Medal on Nov. 2. It's only the second time an entire military unit has been given this honor. (The first was the Tuskegee airmen.)
The Congressional Gold Medal is different from the Medal of Honor. Several 442 veterans have that one, too, including Sen. Daniel Inouye, D-Hawaii, who lost his right arm while leading an assault on a heavily-defended ridge near San Terenzo in Tuscany.
Doi and Sakai were among the hundreds of surviving veterans of the regiment who flew to Washington, DC, for the ceremony, which was held in the U.S. Capitol's Emancipation Hall.
President Obama wasn't invited because this was a congressional event, not a presidential one. But all the party leaders from both the House and Senate made speeches.
"I thought Nancy Pelosi gave a good speech, and so did Mitch McConnell," says Sakai. "But the amazing thing is that there were eight to 10 politicians, and they all stayed within their time limit!"
The climax of the ceremony was the awarding of the gold medal, which Sen. Inouye accepted on behalf of the regiment.
"Danny looked great," says Sakai, a good friend since they served together in the war. "He's dyed his hair, so he looks younger. The rest of us have white hair."
The next day, the veterans were wined and dined at a gala banquet in the main ballroom of the Washington Hilton, featuring speeches by Inouye, Rep. Mike Honda (D-San Jose), Veterans Affairs chief Gen. Eric Shinseki, and "Today" show anchor Ann Curry.
"After the banquet we had our own private celebration," says Sakai. "We drank a LOT of Scotch. I think we drained the hotel's supply."
There are two reasons why the 442 earned so many medals. One is that some - but not all - of their Caucasian officers were racists who considered them mere cannon fodder and had no hesitation about sacrificing their lives to get bigger headlines.
But the other reason is that they were simply better soldiers. They could do things that other units couldn't do, such as rescuing the Lost Battalion, a Texas National Guard unit that was trapped behind German lines; or breaking the Gothic Line in northern Italy, which had stymied the entire U.S. Army for six months. They broke through in less than 24 hours.
Both these deeds were accomplished with great loss of life, of course. Doi's company was the spearhead of the assault that rescued the Lost Battalion.
"There were 130 of us when we attacked," he says. "Only eight of us walked out."
The Congressional Gold Medal will go on permanent display at the Smithsonian, and all the veterans received duplicates made from a baser metal.
One of those duplicates will become part of the exhibit honoring the 442 aboard the aircraft carrier USS Hornet, the floating maritime museum docked at Alameda Point. It is the only display honoring an Army unit aboard a Navy ship. Sakai will formally present the medal to the Hornet at a ceremony on Friday at 11 a.m.
"My father always said that something good will come out of all this," says Doi. "After 67 years, it's too late for the guys who are no longer here. But they finally acknowledged us, and things are all changed for my children."

Pigskins and Pianos

2011-11-08T10:51:00.001-08:00

(Above: Pappy Below: Audrey)

When Larry Blake's restaurant closed its doors last February, after 70 years as THE hangout for Cal students and alumni, many Old Blues wondered where they could go now.
Fear not: A new eatery is about to open on that site, and it's going to be called Pappy's Grill, which shows the new owners know a thing or two about tradition.
It's going to be blue and gold from top to bottom, from the oversized Cal banner flying in the courtyard to the framed football program covers from the Wonder Team and Thunder Team years on the walls.
The men's basketball team will broadcast its post-game radio show from the restaurant, and Pappy's Boys - the guys who played during the Pappy Waldorf era - are donating memorabilia.
But Pappy's is going to be about more than the Waldorf era, or even Cal football. The giant TV screen will feature videos of The Play that broke Stanford's heart in 1982 (but not, thankfully, Roy Riegels' wrong-way run that lost the Rose Bowl in 1929).
But it will also show the Cal Marching Band doing its signature spell-out at the Big Game, Cecilia Bartoli in a Cal Performances concert at Zellerbach Hall, some of Cal's 22 Nobel Prize winners giving lectures, even Mario Savio speaking on Sproul steps.
"We want to honor the whole spectrum of Cal/Berkeley/Telegraph Avenue history," says owner Alex Popov.
He hopes to have the place open by the end of the month; but you know how pokey the permitting process can be, so it might take another week or two.
* * *
Meanwhile, here's an update on 16-year-old piano sensation Audrey Vardanega, the Oakland girl who has been wowing critics, audiences and seasoned musical pros ever since she made her debut with the Midsummer Mozart Festival at age 13.
At the time, I asked Maestro George Cleve, the festival's artistic director, how good Audrey is for someone her age.
"Her age has nothing to do with it," he said. "You're lucky to find that kind of ability at any age. She has an endless capacity to move me musically. It's a privilege to work with her."
Then I heard her play, and I understood what he was talking about. Beyond her flawless technique and profound understanding of the music, she has the rare ability to bring the audience into the experience. When she plays Mozart, it's an intimate three-way conversation between her, Mozart and you.
And the best part is that none of this has gone to her head. She's still a normal teenager who is eagerly looking forward to attending a Katy Perry concert next month.
On Dec. 2 the Piedmont Piano Company's prestigious concert series will showcase her playing works by Chopin, Mozart, Liszt and Debussy.
And for the occasion, owner Jim Callahan - a big fan of Audrey's - is lending her one of his Fazioli pianos, the Rolls Royce of the piano world.
Faziolis are handmade from the finest materials on the planet. The wood for the soundboards comes from the same forest that Antonio Stradivari used to make his violins. Only 50 are made each year.
The Piedmont Piano Company is located at 18th and San Pablo in downtown Oakland. Suggested donation is $15. Visit www.piedmontpiano.com for more information.

Pigskin Pioneer

2011-10-24T11:10:00.001-07:00

Congratulations to Andy Mousalimas of Oakland, who is back from Los Angeles after being inducted as one of the inaugural members of the Toyota Fantasy Football Hall of Fame, along with Scotty Stirling and the late Bill Winkenbach.
Toyota flew Andy and his daughter, Paula, to L.A. for the ceremony, put them up at a posh hotel, wined them and dined them, and gave them the VIP treatment. (You can watch the induction ceremony at http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=sn8YbwpWB1c/)
It's no less than he deserves, because Andy, Scotty and Bill were the guys who invented fantasy football.
It all started in a New York City hotel room on a rainy October night in 1962, when the Raiders were on the tail end of a 16-day East Coast road trip. (In those days, they scheduled all their away games in one stretch because they couldn't afford to fly back and forth to the East Coast.)
Bill, a part owner of the Raiders, was joined by Bill Tunnell, the team's P.R. man, and Scotty, who was covering the team for the Oakland Tribune. As the night progressed and the cocktails flowed, the three men hammered out the basic rules.
When they got back to Oakland they let a few more guys in on the idea, including George Ross, sports editor of the Tribune, and Andy, who was managing the Raiders players' favorite watering hole, the Lamp Post.
Thus was born the Greater Oakland Professional Pigskin Prognosticators League - GOPPPL for short. Bill was named league commissioner.
"You have to understand what it was like back then," says Andy. "Pro football wasn't what it is now; baseball was the big thing. And the lowest of all were AFL fans like us. NFL fans - particularly 49er fans - looked down their noses at us."
The first draft was held on Aug. 22, 1963, in Bill's basement. The first player taken was George Blanda, who was drafted by two different teams: one as a quarterback and the other as a place-kicker.
As word got around, more people signed up the following year - so many, the draft was moved to a local restaurant.
"To give you an idea of how much times have changed," says Andy, "the menu for the 1966 draft dinner offered a choice of New York steak, prime rib or lobster for $6 per person. And that included tax and tip."
Information was harder to come by in those days. There was no ESPN, no sports bars, and the networks gave only the final scores, not who scored the points. "We kept begging them for more details, but they ignored us," Andy says.
The information gap reached its nadir in 1978, when one GOPPPL team drafted St. Louis tight end J.V. Cain - only to discover that Cain had died three weeks before.
In 1969 Andy bought the King's X Tavern at Piedmont & 51st and turned it into fantasy football central. By 1972 the Kings X had 200 participants playing in six different divisions: Kings, X, Taxi, Other (in honor of the old AFL, dubbed "the other league" by NFL snobs), Rookie, and an all-female division called Queens.
Today, fantasy football is a billion dollar industry with more than 30 million players worldwide.
Scotty went on to executive positions with the Raiders, Warriors and Sacramento Kings. Andy sold the King's X and retired in 1991.
Bill died in 1993. His last words to Scotty were "I told you we should have copyrighted the damn thing!

Rodney King Was Right

2011-10-16T11:14:00.001-07:00

(Above: Rodney King at the press conference following the riots that broke out after the cops who beat him up were acquitted.)

Last week I was talking with a woman whose job is handling customer complaints for a local business. I asked if she's noticed any change lately in the tone of the phone calls.
"Absolutely!" she said. "People are angrier - a LOT angrier. Sometimes I go home after work shaking from the abuse."
I've been hearing the same thing from other people who deal with the public: sales clerks, bus drivers, telephone operators - you name it.
On the other hand, I hear from my friends that when they call a business, the people on the other end of the line are getting snippier, too.
I've also noticed this growing testiness in interpersonal relationships - stupid fights over stupid issues that at another time might have been chalked up to a simple misunderstanding and quickly forgotten.
And I see it on Facebook, listservs and other social media, where the rhetoric is getting meaner and more confrontational.
People are quicker to flip you off in traffic or to blast their horn if you're even a split-second late hitting the gas pedal after the light turns green.
In short, we're getting grumpier. A few weeks ago I wrote a column lamenting the rising anger in our political discourse; and, predictably, I got a lot of angry emails in reply.
But I think the problem goes way beyond the current political nastiness, although that isn't helping matters.
We have been suffering from this terrible recession for more than four years, with no end in sight.
Those who have lost their jobs, their homes or their retirement savings are clearly under a lot of pressure. But even those who have been able to hang on to their jobs are filled with anxiety, and with good reason: There's no telling where the next pink slip will land.
It's not hard to figure out. In high school biology class they taught us that if you put rats in a Skinner box under a lot of pressure, they'll start biting each other.
And when people are put under pressure, they react the same way: by turning on each other. Divorce and domestic abuse rates rise, and the scapegoating and finger pointing - usually at the most vulnerable among us - starts. The history books tell us that the national mood was pretty sour during the Great Depression, too.
I'm no exception. I'm becoming too quick to take offense and too slow to let it drop.
It's all very understandable, even excusable. But is it wise? Things are tough enough without us making it worse by being at each other's throats.
Yes, we feel powerless to change the world. But we can still change the tiny part of the world immediately around us.
We can start by realizing that every person we encounter is a human being, too. The next time someone is rude to you, be generous and don't respond in kind. You don't know what kind of awful day they might be having.
We all need to slow down, cut each other some slack and not sweat the small stuff. Otherwise, we end up becoming part of the problem.
I'm sorry this column isn't very profound. The best I can offer is the question posed by Rodney King: Can't we all just get along?

The Fire Last Time

2011-10-12T13:07:00.000-07:00

On Oct. 19, 1991, I was at the Marines Memorial Club in San Francisco attending a banquet honoring Sam Richards, a 90-year-old Marine aviator who fought in World War I.
He wanted to fight in World War II, too, but the Marines wouldn't let him re-enlist because he was too old. So he joined the Army and became Eleanor Roosevelt's personal pilot, flying her from island to island in the South Pacific to visit the troops.
On the day World War I ended, he and his buddies formed a Last Man's Club. They bought an expensive bottle of French wine and agreed that the last man alive would open it and drink a toast to the others.
The last man turned out to be Richards. That night at the Marines Memorial Club he opened the bottle and let everyone in the room have a sip.
The next morning, his home was burned to the ground by the Oakland Hills firestorm, destroying all the souvenirs of his remarkable life.
Richards was one of thousand of victims of the fire, which killed 25 people, injured hundreds of others and destroyed more than 4,000 homes
Many survivors never went back. "I can rebuild my house, but I can't rebuild my neighborhood," one explained to me. "That's gone forever."
But there were a few miraculous escapes. The nuns at Holy Names College, which was directly in the path of the flames, prayed to the founder of their order, Mother Marie Rose Durocher, to save the school.
You may or may not believe in the power of prayer, but the fact remains: Holy Names was saved, even though the surrounding area was completely devastated.
Then there was Dudley the dog. He was a 10-year-old German shepherd mix owned by Virginia Smith, one of the 25 people who died that terrible day. When firefighters found Dudley in the ruins of Smith's home on Charing Cross Road, he was huddled next to her body.
All four paws were horribly burned, but he wouldn't leave her side. They literally had to drag him away.
Dudley was rushed to Berkeley Dog & Cat Hospital, where Dr. Alan Shriro lovingly treated his burns. But he barely moved. He barely ate. He'd lost the will to live.
Meanwhile, hospital staffers were frantically trying to locate Smith's husband, Stanley, who wasn't home when the fire struck.
Finally, after days of searching, they found him. He was staying with his brother in San Leandro.
"I'll be right there!" he said.
It normally takes at least a half-hour to drive from San Leandro to Berkeley. He made it in 15 minutes.
Dudley was in the back room. But as soon as he got a whiff of his dad's scent, he started crying louder than you've ever heard a dog cry in your life.
"We brought him out, and he went wild with joy," says Shriro. "He started jumping up and down and howling and wagging his tail like crazy. Mr. Smith started crying. Then everyone in the waiting room started crying. And so did I."
But these were rare exceptions. The firestorm was an unqualified disaster, even worse than the Loma Prieta earthquake, which was plenty bad enough.
I told myself, "I will never experience anything as horrible as this again."
Then came 9/11.

Mary Had A Little Lamb

2011-10-02T15:05:00.000-07:00

(Above: Twinkle. Photo courtesy of Children's Fairyland)

Sad faces at Children's Fairyland: Twinkle the sheep died on Sept. 20, and everyone - from Juan the alpaca to Puddles the duck - misses her terribly.
Twinkle was only three and a half when she died, which makes her an anomaly at Fairyland, where the animals usually live way, way beyond their normal life expectancies because of all the TLC.
But poor Twinkle was afflicted by a congenital defect called megaesophagus, which causes bloat, a painful and deadly condition in sheep. For months, the staffers at Fairyland strove heroically to keep her alive, especially animal caregiver Deborah Ramirez, who logged countless hours - often off the clock - comforting her.
But her suffering finally became so acute that they reluctantly decided to have her humanely euthanized. Ramirez was holding her in her arms when she died.
From the moment she arrived at Fairyland in 2008, Twinkle stole everyone's heart. She loved people, especially Ramirez, whom she would follow around all day like Mary and her little lamb.
And she was absolutely wonderful with the kids. She had been rejected by her own mother, and there was something about her that made you think that she somehow knew what it was like to be lonely. Her greatest joy in the world was giving and receiving love from the park's pint-sized patrons.
Twinkle was a Suffolk sheep, and it turns out that breed is especially susceptible to the condition that killed her. So no more Suffolks for Fairyland.
Instead, Ramirez has found a breeder named Jamie Peyton, owner of Elysian Oaks Farm in Winters, who raises a different breed called Babydoll sheep, which are especially resistant to megaesophagus.
And they have a couple of other advantages. They're called Babydolls for a good reason: They never get taller than 24 inches, which means they'll look like lambs for their whole lives.
They'll act like lambs, too. Five of the ewes - Mary, Melonie, Monique, Butterfly and Leia - are pregnant, and they're due to deliver this winter.
"Lambs that are born in cold weather are more gentle, loving and sweet," says Ramirez. "They like to snuggle more, and they get more hands-on treatment from their keepers than lambs born in the summer, who roam outside from a very young age."
Fairyland's new lamb won't be available for adoption until spring, which is just as well because it'll probably take Fairyland that long to pay off Twinkle's medical bills.
Some might wonder why Fairyland, which runs on the tightest of budgets - made even tighter last year by the City of Oakland slashing its contribution by 25 percent - would shell out so much cash on a hopeless cause.
The answer is simple: It's the moral thing to do.
"For the animals, this park is their home," says executive director C.J. Hirschfield. "They live here 24/7. We’re just visitors."
Besides, it's the way the little children - who are, after all, the people to whom Fairyland is ultimately responsible - would want it.
After Jewel the cat died last March, Fairyland set up a fund for unanticipated emergencies like this.
If you, or a child you love, have ever been charmed by Twinkle or one of the other animals at Fairyland, now's the time to say thanks by sending a tax-deductible contribution to Children's Fairyland, 699 Bellevue Ave., Oakland CA 94610.

All That Jazz

2011-09-26T11:39:00.000-07:00

The wonderful vocal jazz quartet The Manhattan Transfer will give an all-too-infrequent Bay Area performance this Saturday at a garden party in concert promoter Danny Scher's backyard in Kensington. It's a benefit for the Jazzschool in Berkeley.
"We're doing this concert simply because we believe the Jazzschool is a much-needed musical institution, and we want to make sure it sticks around," says singer Janis Siegel. "The Manhattan Transfer is proud to help in any way we can, and we are looking forward to singing at our old friend Danny's home to aid the cause."
The tickets aren't cheap - $175, most of it tax-deductible - but if you dig the elegant sangfroid with which they swing the classics as much as I do, this is a rare opportunity to hear them up close and personal.
Besides, as she said, it's for a great cause. The Jazzschool is one of most comprehensive schools for jazz, blues, funk, rock, gospel, R&B, Brazilian, world and Afro-Caribbean in the country, offering vocalists and instrumentalists at all ages and skill levels a broad spectrum of performance classes, lectures and workshops ranging from "Exploring the Bebop Scale" to "Personal Financial Planning for Musicians."
It offers two distinct educational programs - the Community Music School, which includes the Adult Music Program and the Young Musicians Program; and the Jazzschool Institute, an academic degree program offering a B.Mus. in jazz studies.
"Although I've never run this analogy by Alice Waters, I like to compare the community music school, where students take classes on an a la carte basis, to the café upstairs at Chez Panisse, and the degree program, where students participate in a program of study, to the fixed-price restaurant downstairs. Either way, they're sure to get a fabulous meal!" says Jazzschool founder and director Susan Muscarella.
Nestled in the basement of the old Kress five-and-dime store on Addison Street, next to the Aurora Theater and Berkeley Rep, the Jazzschool is a little bit of Greenwich Village in the middle of downtown Berkeley.
Among its features: a café, book & CD store, photo gallery, guitar repair shop, and 12 practice rooms with no 90-degree angles.
"That's important because parallel walls aren't good for acoustics," Muscarella explains. "Also, I think being in the basement is cool for jazz."
On one wall of the main hall - Hardymon Hall, named after the late Phil Hardymon, who founded the award-winning jazz program at Berkeley High - hangs a huge, hammered-steel sculpture that replicates, note-for-note, Charlie Parker's "Yardbird Suite," which he composed as a tribute to Stravinksy's "Firebird Suite."
The Manhattan Transfer concert begins at 7 p.m. For tickets and directions, visit www.jazzschool.org or call 510-845-5373. And remember: It's outdoors, so dress warmly.
* * *
Finally, we're in the middle of the Jewish High Holy Days, which began Wednesday night with Rosh Hashanah, the Jewish New Year, and ends next Saturday with Yom Kippur, the day Sandy Koufax refused to pitch the first game of the 1965 World Series.
At this time of year it's customary for Jews to seek out whomever they have offended during the prior 12 months and ask forgiveness. So let me apologize to everyone this column has offended in the past year. I'll try to do better next year.
Happy 5772!

Swingin' Sisters

2011-09-19T14:24:00.001-07:00

Ellen Seeling is a woman on a mission. Actually, three missions.
First, she wants to keep playing jazz, the music she has loved since she was a little girl listening to her father's Count Basie and Stan Kenton records.
Second, she wants to take jazz out of the musty, rarefied atmosphere of the academy and put it back where it belongs: on the dance floor.
"A lot of bands take dance gigs and then they play all this obscure stuff that nobody can dance to," she says. "Then they wonder why the audience for jazz is shrinking. Well, duh!"
Last but not least, she wants to end the historic gender discrimination in jazz, which has relegated female instrumentalists to second-class status. (Female vocalists are another story; there have always been opportunities for them.)
It was for all these reasons that Seeling - a virtuoso trumpet player who has played with Slide Hampton, Phoebe Snow and the Thad Jones/Mel Lewis Orchestra, among others - founded the Montclair Women's Big Band in 1998 and the Girls' Jazz and Blues Camp in 2009.
"Women are being denied the professional experience they need," she says. "They don't get a chance to play with people who are better than them, so they have to do it all on their own. It's daunting. It's crushing, actually."
Currently, she leading a boycott of this year's San Francisco Jazz Festival, which features only two female instrumentalists among its more than 35 headlining acts.
(For the record, festival spokesman Marshall Lamm denies any bias, saying, "For nearly 30 years, SFJAZZ has presented many of the most illustrious women in and will continue to do so moving forward. SFJAZZ Education provides extensive outreach and guidance to young female musicians, and the SFJAZZ High School All-Stars has included young female musicians in the band since its inception.")
Seeling says women start bumping up against barriers when they're still little girls.
"I wanted to play the trumpet, but the music teacher told my mother, 'The trumpet is not a good instrument for girls. She'll have deformed lips, and boy's don't like that.' Thank God, my mother said, 'I don't care. Give her a trumpet anyway.'"
The Montclair Women's Big Band has been a success from the start. Music critics strained for superlatives to describe them, including Larry Kelp, who wrote, "See this band and then scratch your head wondering why it hasn't been featured at the big jazz festivals."
But their greatest endorsement came at their very first gig, when the audience paid them the supreme compliment: They got down on the floor and started dancing.
"It was such a rush!" says Seeling. "The band members were thrilled in spite of themselves. Being jazz musicians, they tried to be cool, but I could tell they were excited."
Being a pioneer isn't easy. Seeling has had more than her share of sneers and hate mail.
But times are changing. The band's solo trombonist, Sarah Cline, has been named the first female director of the award-winning Berkeley High School jazz program.
The band's next gigs are at the Women of Taste event at Kaiser Rooftop Gardens in Oakland on Oct. 1; at the Oakland Suffrage Parade, celebrating the 100th anniversary of women gaining the right to vote in California, at Lake Merritt on Oct. 2; and at Yoshi's on Nov. 27.

Shoulder To Shoulder

2011-09-13T11:48:00.000-07:00

Hard as it is to believe, women have had the right to vote for less than 100 years. The 19th Amendment to the Constitution wasn't ratified until 1920.
But our state was ahead of the nation by almost a decade. On Nov. 10, 1911, California voters passed a ballot measure granting voting rights to women.
Most of the "no" votes came from San Francisco and Alameda counties, due to a lavishly funded campaign by the Liquor Dealers League.
They were afraid that women would vote for prohibition, which was a feminist issue because many men were getting drunk and beating their wives or abandoning their children.
And they pulled out all the stops. There's a new exhibit at Cal's Bancroft Library showcasing the "no" campaign's propaganda leaflets, including one that warned men that if they voted "yes," they would come home one day to find their dinners uncooked and their children dirty because their wives were elsewhere, hanging out with 11 strange men.
In other words, they would be serving jury duty!
It was one of the closest - and crookedest - elections ever. More than 3,000 phony ballots were discovered in San Francisco alone. On election night, the San Francisco papers unanimously declared the ballot measure was defeated.
But over the next few days, as the results from Southern California and the rural areas trickled in, the margin kept narrowing until votes for women finally won by 3,587 votes.
The only city in Alameda County to vote "yes" was Berkeley, thanks to a small army of volunteers - ranging from wealthy matrons to Cal coeds - led by Hester Harland.
Holding strategy sessions called "Pink Teas" (so called because the name sounded like a harmless social event, not a political meeting, thus avoiding conflict with their anti-suffrage husbands), they fanned out over the city, buttonholed the voters one-by-one, and filled every available meeting place in the city with public speakers.
"The newspapers didn’t want to cover them," says Harland's great-granddaughter, Colleen Kelly. "So she and her staff would take huge bells and toll them as they walked along the street, shouting information about the next suffrage meeting."
The campaign climaxed with a huge parade on election night, led, in Harland's words, by "a tally-ho filled with musicians and young women carrying banners and legends," ending in a rally in the Berkeley High School auditorium.
But Harland wasn't there. Exhausted by overwork, she suffered a nervous breakdown a week before the election and missed the celebration.
But her triumph endures. And this Sunday, to celebrate the 100th anniversary of women's suffrage in California, the Berkeley Historical Society will unveil a new exhibit titled "Berkeley Women Vote: Celebrating California Suffrage 1911-2011" in the Berkeley Veterans Building.
The guest of honor will be Colleen Kelly. Another of Harland's great-granddaughters, Jane Frederick, contributed some of Harland's personal items to the exhibit.
This year is also the 100th anniversary of the Berkeley League of Women Voters - founded shortly after the 1911 election "to follow up the recent victory of Women's Suffrage in California with effective civic work." The League will observe its centennial on Oct. 30 with a celebration in the Berkeley City Council chamber.
Happy double anniversary to all. It wasn't the first time that our country was made better by letting more people in under the tent, and I hope it won't be the last.

Happy Ending

2011-09-10T16:32:00.000-07:00

(Left: Alexia. Right: Rosco. Photo by Miguel Buchwald.)

For Rosco the puppy, last Friday was the second-best day of his life, second only to the day five months ago when he was adopted by Kate McFarland of Oakland and her parents, Rick and Carolyn.
Rosco, a 7-month-old, brown-and-white fluffball with a black button nose and two coal black eyes, was playing with his favorite squeaky toy when the doorbell rang.
In walked his sister Alexia, whom he hadn't seen since they both survived a medical ordeal that shouldn't happen to, well, a dog.
Both dogs jumped for joy. He chased her around the room. Then she chased him around the room. Then they rolled around together and wrestled. Then, totally bushed, they flopped down and curled up together for about five minutes. Then they jumped up and started the whole routine all over again.
This continued non-stop for more than three hours. The puppies were in ecstasy. And so were their owners, watching them.
"When I think of how close both of them came to dying, it's a joy to see them so happy and healthy," said Sandy Buchwald of Vallejo who, with her husband Miguel, adopted Alexia.
Rosco and Alexia were part of a litter that were rescued last March by Paw Prints Rescue in Yuba City after they were abandoned by their mother. The two puppies were so devoted to each other, the staffers at Paw Prints dubbed them "The Twins."
Roscoe was adopted by the McFarlands after they saw his picture online and were instantly smitten. Ditto for Alexia and the Buchwalds. They were headed for happy homes, but it was doubtful that they would ever see each other again.
But a few days later, Rosco developed severe vomiting and diarrhea. His worried owners rushed him to PETS Referral Center in Berkeley, where Dr. Shea Cox, the veterinarian on duty, diagnosed parvovirus, a highly contagious and potentially lethal disease, especially in puppies.
The next day he was feeling better, so he was sent home to continue his recovery. Two hours after he left, another puppy was brought in with the same symptoms.
It was Alexia, and she was even sicker than Rosco. Pneumonia and anemia set in on top of the parvovirus, and she was soon struggling for her life.
The next day, Rosco's condition started deteriorating again, and he returned to the hospital. It was only then that the McFarlands and Buchwalds finally met. They put two and two together and realized that their puppies were littermates.
Dr. Cox put Rosco and Alexia in side-by-side cages in intensive care, hooked them up to IVs, and worked day and night to keep them alive. By now, they were down to less than three pounds.
"I had to stop the vomiting and diarrhea because they were dying of starvation and thirst," she said. "I gave them anti-emetics, antibiotics, sugar and potassium supplements, and plasma transfusions as a protein source. Plasma contains small proteins - not enough to do a big dog any good, but enough for small dogs like them."
But the best medicine of all was each other.
"It was so comforting knowing that Alexia was no longer alone in the isolation ward," said Sandy Buchwald. "I knew that if either of these puppies ever had a chance of fighting this illness off, it would be now, when they could comfort and support each other."
And she was right. After a week of medical treatment and loads of TLC, the puppies were well enough to return to their respective homes.
But they haven't seen each other since then. Alexia had to be spayed, Rosco had to be neutered, and their owners wanted to take time to let the incisions heal for fear that in their unrestrained joy at seeing each other they might tear their stitches.
That waiting period ended last Friday. By now, Rosco has grown to 15 pounds, and Alexia isn't far behind at 13 pounds. They are the picture of health and high spirits.
While the puppies cavorted, their owners compared notes and were amazed to discover how similar their personalities are.
Both love tummy rubs. Both love to chew flip-flops. Both love to ride in cars. Both like to lick the water from their owners' legs when they emerge from the shower.
Both are voracious chowhounds. Both are addicted to their squeaky toys. And both are utterly devoted to their owners - and each other.
About three hours into this play date the doorbell rang again. It was Dr. Cox, who stopped by to say hi to her former patients.
The puppies exploded with joy at seeing her again, and she wiped more than a few tears from her eyes.
""They made it!" she said. "They really did it! They were so weak when I first met them, they couldn't even lift their heads. And now look at them!"
And will there be more play dates in the future?
"Are you kidding?" says Carolyn McFarland. "After all they've been through together? These dogs will never be apart again!"

Squandering The Spirit of 9/11

2011-09-04T13:25:00.000-07:00

I know this sounds crazy, but I miss 9/11.
It even sounds crazy to me because that was the worst day of my life, and I suspect it was for you, too.
Each of us is haunted by memories of that day and the ones that followed. I will never forget the sad sight of the victims' families placing missing posters at Ground Zero, putting on a brave face and hoping against hope that their loved ones were still alive. I don't miss that.
What I miss is the wave of national unity that swept the county. My first column after the attacks began with the words, "Well, the 2000 election is finally over," and I had high hopes that the bitterness of the Bush/Gore election would be swept away by the realization that, to paraphrase Jefferson, we are all Republicans, we are all Democrats, united by a common dream of a land with liberty and justice for all.
Pretty naïve, huh? It didn't take long for us to get back to normal. And by normal, I mean dysfunctional.
Ronald Reagan used to ask, "Are you better off than you were four years ago?" And by any measure you use, we are worse off than we were in 2001.
Our Bill of Rights, economy, military, schools, infrastructure and international reputation are in tatters. Crucial problems such as immigration, climate change, the decline of the cities, the growing gap between the rich and poor and the pernicious influence of big money on our politics, have been kicked down the road - some, I fear, past the point of no return.
But the worst problem, the one that underlies all the others, is that many Americans hate other Americans more than they love their country.
And they're being egged on by cynical politicians and partisan media figures who tell them over and over to fear their fellow citizens.
The 9/11 tragedy isn't the only anniversary we're observing this year. It's also the 150th anniversary of the beginning of the Civil War and the 70th anniversary of our entry into World War II.
In the first case Americans split apart, and the result was more than 650,000 deaths. In the second case Americans came together, and they saved the world.
Now it's our turn. It's time to decide what kind of country we want to be. We are at a crossroads, and it can go either way.
There are some dangerous tendencies at work in the land. A lot of loose words are being thrown around about secession and "Second Amendment remedies." People are showing up at political rallies with loaded weapons. And some crazies are going even further - witness the attempted assassination of Rep. Gabrielle Giffords.
This kind of reckless talk was common in the years leading up to the Civil War, too. Sure, we don't think it will come to war this time, but that's what people thought in 1860, too.
Lincoln, of course, described it best:
"All dreaded it, all sought to avert it. Both parties deprecated war, but one of them would make war rather than let the nation survive, and the other would accept war rather than let it perish. And the war came."
United we stand, divided we fall.

No Straight Lines And A Surprise Around Every Corner

2011-08-23T10:30:00.000-07:00

(Above: The Blue Fairy telling stories and singing songs at Fairyland.)

In 1948 Arthur Navlet, owner of one of Oakland's largest floral nurseries, had an idea for a children's park on the shores of Lake Merritt that would be unlike any other - not a frenetic mini-carnival, but a safe, quiet, comforting environment where children could play at their own pace and on their own terms.
He took his idea to Oakland Parks Superintendent William Penn Mott, who immediately signed on, and the Lake Merritt Breakfast Club, which pledged its support.
To design the new park, which would be called Children's Fairyland, Mott chose architect William Russell Everett.
Everett built a tiny model of the first attraction, the Merry Miller Cottage. It was a perfect replica of a medieval English cottage, and he was delighted with the result.
But Mott was not. He didn't want realism; he wanted whimsy, a little nonsensical and out of kilter - the way a small child might view the grownup world.
Enraged by the criticism, Everett grabbed a baseball bat, smashed the model to smithereens, and stalked out of the room.
Mott and Navlet were sure that was the last they'd ever hear from him. But a week later, he returned with a new model. It was oddly twisted and had no square sides, and it was painted in outlandish colors.
"That's it!" Mott exclaimed.
Thus was born the principle that has ruled Children's Fairyland ever since - "no straight lines and a surprise around every corner."
Everett went on to achieve fame and fortune as the nation's foremost designer of miniature golf courses, using the ideas he first developed at Fairyland.
And Fairyland became the model for Walt Disney when he built Disneyland. He even hired away Fairyland's first director, Dorothy Manes, and its first puppeteer, Bob Mills, for his new park.
But I much prefer the original. For six decades, Children's Fairyland has been what Mott and Navlet intended it to be: an oasis of serenity in the midst of the big city, where little kids can run free and just be little kids.
And it's all beautifully documented in a new book, "Creating a Fairyland: 60 Years of Magic at Children's Fairyland USA" by Randal Metz and Tony Jonick.
Each page is packed with memories, including:
* 10-year-old Beth Werschkul, the very first Storybook Personality, who was Alice in Wonderland in 1960.
* Popo the Clown and his six-legged cow, who enchanted generations of children from 1958 until his death in 1981.
* Master puppeteer Lewis Mahlmann, who directed the Storybook Puppet Theater from 1967 until 2003.
* The Blue Fairy (real name: Jacqueline Lynaugh), whose songs and stories have brought fairytales to life for the park's pint-sized visitors for more than 20 years.
* And, of course, all the adorable animals who have lived at Fairyland over the years, from Emo the Saint Bernard, who used to haul kids around the park in his dog cart - a tradition that was carried on by his son, Jamie, and his grandson, Hondo - to the charming but naughty miniature donkeys Gideon and Tumbleweed Tommy - aka "the bad boys" - who get into mischief every chance they get.
(In the old days Fairyland used to hold an annual Aesop's Derby, featuring races between turtles and rabbits. This being real life and not myth, the rabbits always won.)
Metz and Jonick are the perfect people to write this book. A former Storybook Personality himself, Metz is the current director of the puppet theater.
And Jonick, who met his wife at Fairyland, has been a fan ever since he was a little kid growing up in the Fiji Islands, when he read about Fairyland in a "Dennis the Menace" comic book.
Chock full of priceless pictures, "Creating a Fairyland" is the next best thing to visiting the park itself. It's available at Fairyland's Magic Leaf gift shop, A Great Good Place for Books in Montclair, Laurel Book Store on MacArthur Boulevard or Spectator Books on Piedmont Avenue.
At 60, Fairyland looks better than ever. But the important things will never change.
Children are still warned not to cross the Magic Pink Line in front of the puppet theater because if they get any closer, the puppets will become frightened and run off the stage. (Although the cynical grownup in me suspects that the real reason is that the kids will see the puppets' strings.)
And I hope you've hung on to your Magic Key because it still works.

Bullying

2011-08-22T11:42:00.000-07:00

(Above: Mrs. Lacey's first grade class, El Rodeo School, 1951. I'm in the back row, second kid from the left. Standing between me and Mrs. Lacey is David Ansen, who grew up to become Newsweek's movie critic. Click on the picture to enlarge it.)

Last week, Phil Catalfo of Berkeley posted a message on his Facebook wall that struck a nerve with me:
"Special request to all kids returning to school in the next few days. If you see someone who is struggling to make friends, being excluded or bullied because they don't have many friends or because they are shy or not as pretty or not dressed in the most 'in' clothes, PLEASE step up. Say 'hi' or at least smile at them in the hallway. You never know what that person might be facing. Your kindness might just make a big difference in someone's life."
His words struck me because I, too, was bullied when I was young. Every morning, I woke up dreading having to face another day at school. I tried faking illness until my mother caught on and made me go anyway.
The worst part was the humiliation. I was so embarrassed, I stayed in the closet about it for years.
I was angry; but there was nothing I could do. My sole comfort was sitting in the back of the classroom and fantasizing about killing my tormentors.
Thank God I was living in a place and time where there was no access to guns. Otherwise, I might have ended up like those killers at Columbine. Trust me: Kids under pressure are incapable of making mature choices.
The scars lasted a long time. The experience turned me into a lonely, mistrustful person.
You'd think it also made me a more compassionate person, right?
Wrong. I was so pathetically desperate to fit in with the crowd that when the opportunity finally came to pick on someone even more vulnerable, I jumped at it.
He was a developmentally disabled boy named Barry. I don't know if he's still haunted by the memory of my cruelty. I sure am.
But there's a way out of this vicious circle: Turn over enforcement to the kids themselves.
At Park Day School in Oakland, for instance, on the first day of school every kindergartener is assigned a 6th grade buddy who escorts them to lunch, sits with them, and generally takes them under his/her wing. If a little kid is being bullied, he can go to his/her older buddy for help.
The little ones learn that big kids are their friends. And they excitedly look forward to the day when they'll be in the 6th grade and can mentor a kindergarten buddy of their own.
Even that dreaded childhood jungle, the playground, is kinder and gentler. If you spot someone sad, you're responsible for finding out if that kid is OK and how you can help, even if he or she isn't necessarily a friend of yours.
The result is a complete change in the campus culture. If you're in the first grade you might not pay attention to what a grownup says, but a fifth or sixth grader is the coolest thing on earth. And if that older kid tells you that bullying is totally uncool, you believe it.
That's the way the system operates at Park, but you can find variations at other local schools, public and private.
If your child's school doesn't have a similar program, tell your principal about it. It really works.
And teach your kids to be kind to each other.

Seeing Differently

2011-08-15T15:38:00.001-07:00

Zoey Stoll and Micah McKechnie have never met each other, but they have a lot in common.
Both are scary smart, both hail from Oakland (Zoey is a junior at Oakland Tech; Micah is a junior at UC Santa Barbara) and both have a neurologically-based condition called synesthesia.
I know that sounds like a horrible disease, but it's actually something wonderful.
Synesthesia is a term scientists use to describe what happens when stimulating one sense causes an involuntary response in another sense.
In Zoey's case, it's her visual sense. When she reads, each letter and number has a specific color, gender and personality.
"It can be a real advantage," she says. "If I see a math problem, I see it in a range of colors, which is pretty cool. And it's hard for me to misspell a word because if I do, the colors don't line up right."
She feels sorry for the rest of us, who read only in black and white.
"I'm really glad I have synesthesia. Reading would be so boring without it."
Often, the letters in each word will take their cue from the first letter. If the first letter is feminine, the other letters in the word probably will be, too.
"For instance, 'M' and 'S' are feminine letters," she said. "'So I hate to tell you, but 'Martin Snapp' is a very feminine name."
When she was a little girl, she used to write science fiction stories influenced by her synesthesia.
"One of my stories was about a green planet, and all the names of places on the planet were words that started with a green letter," she says.
Micah share's Zoey's sensitivity to letters and numbers, but she's even more sensitive to vibrations, especially sounds.
"It allows me to escape in my head," she says. "Whenever I'm on a long car ride or stuck in school doing absolutely nothing for lunch, I can just close my eyes and see amazing shapes and colors from every sound I hear. I wish I were more of an artist so I could draw them."
Needless to say, music is an utter joy for her. When she closes her eyes she sees light shows that are infinitely better than anything I used to see at the Avalon or the Fillmore back in the 196Os. And she doesn't need drugs to do it, either.
That's another thing she and Zoey have in common: They adamantly refuse to touch drugs or alcohol, and for a simple reason.
"I don't like anything that messes with my head," says Micah. "I'm already there. I don't need that."
And there's one more advantage. Micah has loved horses since she was a little girl, and her riding instructors have always marveled at her perfect riding form.
"If you flex a muscle, that's just another type of vibration," she explains. "So I can see all my muscles when I'm riding. If my form is off even a little bit, I can see that in my mind."
Not much is known about this syndrome, although it seems to affect a lot of creative people.
Famous synesthetes include composers Duke Ellington, Franz Liszt and Nikolai Rimsky-Korsakov, painters David Hockney and Wassily Kandinsky, novelist Vladimir Nabokov and physicist Richard Feynman.
I'm curious: Just how widespread is this syndrome? If you have synesthesia, too, please write me and describe your experiences. I'm absolutely fascinated - and, frankly, a little jealous.

Run While You Can

2011-08-15T15:36:00.001-07:00

In 10 days, 24-year-old Sam Fox of Berkeley will attempt an arduous outdoor trek that has been accomplished by far fewer people than have climbed Mount Everest.
He's going to run, hike and climb 2,650 miles along the Pacific Coast Trail from Canada to Mexico, an odyssey that will take him past three national monuments, seven national parks and 24 national forests.
He will ascend 60 major mountain passes, descend 19 major canyons and pass more than 1,000 lakes through freezing cold, sweltering heat and driving rains, dodging mountain lions, black bears and rattlesnakes along the way.
The trip will start on Aug. 25 at Manning Provincial Park in British Columbia and, if all goes according to schedule, finish at the Mexican border on Oct. 24.
To meet that schedule, he'll need to average 44.6 miles per day. But he has no choice.
"The weather window is so tight," he explained. "That's the reason why so few people have completed the trail north to south: Not many people have tried."
That much exertion requires more than 8,000 calories per day, some in the form of high-protein drinks he will carry with him.
The rest of the menu will be what he calls "real food" - steaks, fresh veggies (especially avocados), even the occasional Big Mac, all provided by his two-man support team, who will be traveling on a parallel course in a recreational vehicle, meeting up with him at 38 strategically located contact points along the route.
"I'll call them on the walkie-talkie when I'm about 15 miles away from each contact point, and they'll have my foot bath waiting for me when I get there."
The month-long journey is a fundraiser for Team Fox, the grassroots support organization for the Michael J. Fox (no relation) Foundation for Parkinson's Research.
He hopes to raise $250,000, which he intends to leverage into four times that amount by asking people to donate through his own website, runwhileyoucan.org.
"An anonymous donor has agreed to match everything we get from now until August 25," he said. "And the Michael J. Fox Foundation has found someone else to match all their donations. So if you donate to them through us before that date, you can quadruple your contribution."
People can also send checks to Run While You Can, P.O. Box 786, Narragansett, RI 02882. The same leveraging applies.
Fox is dedicating this run to his mother, Lucy Fox, who has been a Parkinson's patient for more than 10 years.
"My mom is not a victim. She's not sitting at home feeling sorry for herself. Her attitude is that everybody has stuff they have to deal with, and hers just happens to be Parkinson's disease. She's probably embarrassed by the spotlight I'm putting on her.
"She doesn't think of herself as an inspiration, either, although she is to me. She's just so tough. I'm sure she feels awful, but if you ask her how she's doing, she always said, 'I feel great!'"
Fox's Canada-to-Mexico trek is one of many grassroots efforts taking place throughout the country to raise funds for the Michael J. Fox Foundation.
"Michael's daughter, Esme, had a lemonade stand at this year's New York City Marathon," said Sheila Kelly, the foundation's deputy director of development. "Another person swam the English channel. We've also had mud wrestling, golf tournaments and pancake flipping events."
Sam Fox has other projects in mind, too.
"It might be somebody putting on a guitar-a-thon, or somebody writing 20 songs in 20 days," he said. "I can also see us branching out to other causes, like injured veterans.
"I didn't found Run While You Can only to fund Parkinson's research; that's just the first project. My larger goal is to remind people that you have to live in the moment because nothing is guaranteed for tomorrow. My mom's Parkinson's disease is a good example of that. A lot can happen in this life, and I don't want to regret not having given things a shot.
"So when my friends ask me, 'Why are you doing this?' I say, 'Because I want to do something for my mom, or for society.' But the real reason is because I can."

Tears of a Clown

2011-08-08T16:36:00.001-07:00

I don't know what surprised me more: the news that Jerry Lewis has gotten an unceremonious heave-ho as host of the Muscular Dystrophy Association's Labor Day telethon, or my reaction to it.
After all, I've never been a fan of slapstick comedy, which is Jerry's shtick in trade.
But this news has me really upset. It's not only the height of ingratitude; it's a shameful way to treat a man who deserved much better from the MDA.
Over the past 45 years he raised $2.6 billion for them. More importantly, he put the disease - and the association - on the map.
But time moves on, and last spring Jerry, who is 85, and the MDA jointly announced that this would be his last telethon.
Unfortunately, last week the MDA kicked him to the curb with this terse press release:
"The Muscular Dystrophy Association announces that today Jerry Lewis has completed his run as its national chairman. . .We will not be replacing him as MDA national chairman, and he will not be appearing on the Telethon."
They're going to replace him as host with four nonentities I've never heard of: Nancy O'Dell, host of "Access Hollywood;" Nigel Lythgoe, producer of "So You Think You Can Dance;" Jann Carl, former reporter for "Entertainment Tonight" and Alison Sweeney, host of "The Biggest Loser."
No disrespect intended, but collectively they couldn't carry Jerry's whoopee cushion. This is the dumbest re-branding decision since Coca-Cola introduced New Coke.
And the way the MDA handled it is even dumber. The smart thing - as well as the kind thing - would have been to allow Jerry to take a yearlong victory lap, the way NBC did when Johnny Carson retired.
He could have spent the last few months appearing on all the talk shows, reminiscing and plugging the MDA - and you know Letterman and Leno, who greatly admire Jerry, would have been happy to have him - culminating with the telethon itself, which would have been the most star-studded event ever.
Every A-Lister in Hollywood would have lined up to appear on this historic show, and the ratings would have gone through the ceiling.
And now? They'll be lucky if they can get Carrot Top.
And will you be watching? I sure won't. I'll be surprised if it's still on TV in three years.
To his credit, Jerry is keeping mum until after the telethon. He doesn't want to rain on his "kids'" parade. Who could have guessed that Jerry Lewis, who spent his whole career cultivating a childish persona, would be the only adult in the room?
I'm not the only one who is upset. Oakland Tribune reporter Kristin Bender's late father, Phil Bender, directed the telethon's Bay Area’s remote broadcast at KTVU for many years.
"He also worked on 'Romper Room,' 'Creature Features,' 'Dialing for Dollars' and A’s games, but it was the telethons that he loved the most," she says.
Jerry has had health problems of his own, including prostate cancer, pulmonary fibrosis and two heart attacks. But it never stopped him from helping children with disabilities.
"If the MDA executives decided it was time for him to leave the telethon, that’s fine," says Kristin. "But why not let the guy have his swan song? Imagine the ratings. Imagine the viewership. Imagine how it would have made an old man feel."

The Game's Afoot!

2011-08-02T17:36:00.000-07:00

Wednesday will be the 124th anniversary of the publication of a novella titled "A Study In Scarlet," in which a character identified only as "young Stamford" makes the most famous introduction in English literature:
"Dr. Watson, Mr. Sherlock Holmes."
This was the first of four novels and 56 short stories featuring the great detective. It was an instant hit, and Holmes' popularity has never let up. There are Sherlockian societies all over the world, including Malaysia, Australia, India, Japan, Sweden, Tonga, France, Italy, England, Scotland, Wales and the Czech Republic.
There are also specialized societies, such as the Sir James Saunders Society (aka Dermatologists Devoted to Detection), a worldwide society of Sherlockian skin specialists named after the dermatologist consulted by Holmes in "The Adventure of the Blanched Soldier."
It's an article of faith among Sherlockians that the stories aren't fiction; they're fact. We believe - or, at least, we pretend to believe - that Holmes and Watson are real people and that Arthur Conan Doyle is the fictitious character.
Not only are they real, they still live at 221b Baker Street under the care of their loyal landlady, Mrs. Hudson. It's still 1891, the streets of London are still lit by gas lamps, and Holmes and Watson are still battling nefarious villains such as Dr. Grimesby Roylott, Col. Sebastian Moran ("the second-most dangerous man in London") and the Napoleon of crime himself, Professor Moriarty.
Of course, Sherlockians never refer to Holmes by name. We call him The Master. And the stories are called The Sacred Writings, The Saga or The Canon.
This obsession has gotten to the point where one can trace The Master's activities day-by-day by examining clues in The Writings. For instance, it's been determined that the events in "A Study in Scarlet" took place from Friday, March 4, to Monday, March 7, 1881.
There are at least four Sherlockian societies in the Bay Area alone, including the Napa Valley Napoleons (named after "The Adventure of the Six Napoleons"), the Knights of Gnomen in Redwood City, the Diogenes Club (named after The Master's older brother Mycroft's club in London) in Monterey, and the Scowrers (named after the sinister organization in "The Scowrers") in San Francisco.
The Scowrers meet four times a year, usually at Scoma's Restaurant at Fisherman's Wharf. One of the meetings is always on The Master's birthday, Jan. 6.
The following toasts are drunk:
* "The Woman" (aka "the late Irene Adler, of dubious and questionable memory"), whom Holmes holds in highest esteem because she's the only person who ever outwitted him,
* The Queen (Victoria, of course, not Elizabeth II),
* Miss Hattie Doran (the plucky heroine of "The Adventure of The Noble Bachelor"), the only character in The Canon who hails from San Francisco.
There's also a sardonic toast to James Ryder (the villain in "The Adventure of the Blue Carbuncle") commonly regarded as the dumbest culprit in the Canon.
If you haven't read The Sacred Writings yet, how I envy you the joy of discovering them for the first time!
Half the fun is watching Holmes unravel the clues, such as the episode in "The Blue Carbuncle" when he correctly deduces a whole string of personal details about a man he's never met, including the fact that the his wife has ceased to love him, simply by examining the guy's hat.
If I were you, I'd start with my favorite, "Silver Blaze." That's the one with the curious incident of the dog in the nighttime.
"But the dog did nothing in the nighttime."
"That is the curious incident," said Sherlock Holmes.
To find out more about Sherlockian societies in the Bay Area, email sfsherlock@gmail.com.

A Good Man Gone Too Soon

2011-07-30T18:53:00.000-07:00

(This is a class notes column I wrote for the Yale Alumni Magazine on behalf of the Class of 1967, which I serve as corresponding secretary.)

If anyone ever doubted that our class listserv has become a real community, that question was settled once and for all on Jan. 25 when Philip Rosenthal posted this message:
"I bear the sad news of the passing of our dear classmate, Michael Snarskis. I just received an email from Lloyd Timberlake, who found out from someone who knew Michael. May Michael's memory be a blessing. He brought a unique presence to the listserv."
This news triggered a spasm of grief from our classmates, many of whom had never met Mike personally. But everyone felt like they knew him from his listserv postings about his adventures as an archaeologist in Costa Rica and his fight to prevent priceless artifacts from being looted and smuggled out of the country.
"I am still in shock," said Joseph Feit. "My wife and I spent some memorable time with Michael in Costa Rica. He was a fine man, a kind man, a mentsch."
"Mike introduced me to my wife, Nancy, who had gone to high school with him," said Ted Funk, who roomed with him for three years in Calhoun. "Nancy and I miss him and remember him as a kind person, a romantic, who profoundly loved and loved what he did."
"I didn't see things Mike's way in religion," said Rev. Bob Riedel. "But something in Mike moved me, and I liked him. I loved that he shared some of his unpublished discoveries with us. I responded to what seemed like a generous heart. I miss him already."
On Dec. 13 Mike made his final post on the listserv: "Richard Holbrooke dies at 69. My father died at 58. What to think, how much time does it give us? Does it matter? I am getting there fast."
His body was found in bed, with one hand on the book he was reading and the other on his heart. He was cremated, and his ashes were scattered on the dirt where, as the Costa Rican newspaper Tico Times put it, "he discovered civilizations that had risen and returned to the soil thousands of years ago."
Mike first traveled to Costa Rica shortly after graduation as a member of the Peace Corps and innocently started collecting trinkets and heirlooms that he found. Only later did he realize that what he was doing was - by archaeology standards - more on a par with looting. (He immediately returned the artifacts, of course.)
"But he more than made up for his indiscretion," said the Tico Times. "For four decades, Snarskis' contributions were some of the most significant archaeological discoveries in Costa Rica's history."
Mike also worked with the U.S. State Department to fight the illicit trafficking in priceless cultural objects by publishing a "Red List" that describes several categories of objects that are particularly vulnerable to looting. This list has been invaluable to law enforcement in spotting these objects.
"We should celebrate how great a contribution he made to his profession and how it demonstrates the value of the broad liberal education Yale sought to provide us," said Cliff Allo. "For myself, however, I remember best his candor and descriptions of life in Costa Rica and very much appreciated having a 'foreign correspondent' amongst us."
"I didn't know Mike at Yale," said Tony Barclay. "But we became good friends in graduate school at Columbia. We lost touch until our 40th reunion, and I know that being able to attend meant a great deal to him."
Rick Luis and Jay Hines didn't know Mike at Yale, either. "I didn't meet him until our 40th reunion, and all too briefly then," said Rick. "But he was a real presence before and after that on the listserv. The timely themes, obvious passion and touching humanity of his postings made them compulsory reading for a lurker like me. He will be missed."
Jay added, "Michael was one of the many classmates I met for the first time at our last reunion. We had much in common - parents from Iowa, time spent in foreign countries, careers somewhat between government and academia - and we became instant friends. I will miss him greatly."
Chris Kule wrote, "Mike was a 'good ol' soul' (chanted loudly). He remembered me from his days as a waiter at the football training table. Says everything about his generosity of spirit. We are greatly diminished by his passing."
"We have lost a good friend and classmate," said Mike Orlansky. " I got to know Michael through the Yale Band (he was a fine trumpet player in both the football and concert bands), and in small Spanish literature classes. He was a bright, talented, and refreshingly direct and unpretentious person. His work was done not for personal gain or recognition, but rather in the very best spirit of Americans building partnerships and friendships in cooperation with people of other nations.
"At a time in his life when he was experiencing personal, financial and health difficulties, as any of us someday might, it clearly meant a great deal to Michael to know that he was remembered and valued by his classmates, regardless of whether you were an old friend from campus days or a new friend via the list, and to have this connection with Yale.
"Michael will be greatly missed and well remembered by many. Descanse en paz, mi amigo."
Don Pierce, Andy Delbaum, Bill Mace, Bert Rodriguez and Penn Glazier also shared their memories.
Since there was no funeral service, Peter Lee came up with an idea for memorializing Mike that I think would have pleased him greatly: creating a Wikipedia page for him.
And that's exactly what we did. Ed Cherlin took the lead, aided by Alan Burdick, John Roche, Peter Petkas, Jerry de Jaeger, Randy Alfred, Don Pierce, Jay Hines and Tom Devine. You can read the article by going to Wikipedia and typing in Mike's name.
Guys, I miss him, too. And I'm very proud to be in your company.

Fish Story/Horse Story

2011-07-24T19:14:00.000-07:00

(Above: Blackie's statue)

We're on the cusp of July and August, which means the annual Tiburon leopard shark convention is in full swing again.
A few leopard sharks can be found in the waters off Tiburon all year round, but at this time of year their numbers explode into the thousands. They swim so close to the shore you could reach out and touch them, although I wouldn't advise it.
You can identify them by their spots and three fins. At only a yard long, they're no danger to humans. But it's the closest you will ever get to a wild predator in its natural habitat.
I have no idea why there are so many. I talked to shark experts at the State Dept. of Fish & Game and the National Oceanographic and Atmospheric Administration, and all they could tell me is that nobody knows much about why leopard sharks do what they do.
"Maybe they're feeding, maybe they're mating, maybe they're pupping," said Sue Scott of NOAA. "If you notice them doing any of those things, let me know, OK?"
All I know is that watching them is way cool. Drive over the San Rafael Bridge and take 101 South to Tiburon Boulevard. Turn right on Blackie's Pasture Road and take it to the end, which is Blackie's Pasture. Then walk about 20 yards down to the water. Get there at high tide if you can because that's when they swim closest to shore.
Then, when you're finished watching the sharks, there's one more thing to do: visit Blackie's Pasture.
Blackie was a U.S. Army cavalry horse who lived from 1926 to 1966. He retired in 1938 at age 12, and that's when his real career began.
His new owner kept him in a pasture on the only road into town, so you couldn't pass by without seeing "Old Blackie."
It wasn't long before the locals decided that Blackie belonged to all of them. In spite of his swayback, which got more pronounced every year, they admired him for his pride and military air. People of all ages visited Blackie daily and gave him carrots, apples, sugar lumps and hay.
February 27, 1966, is a date that local residents have burned in their memory. That was the day Blackie collapsed and had to be put out of his misery.
After his death, residents searched for ways to express their grief. The Marin County Health Department granted them special permission to bury Blackie in his own pasture
Children from nearby homes spontaneously erected a makeshift cross to mark his resting place. Other kids wrote poems in his memory and planted flowers on his grave. And from grown-ups, wreaths and other floral tributes poured in for weeks.
Blackie's grave is still there, still covered with flowers and lovingly tended by a group of volunteers who call themselves "Blackie's Brigade." In 1995 a life-sized bronze statue of Blackie - swayback and all - was erected in the center of the pasture.
Blackie lived for 40 years. That's a long time for a horse. Local residents are convinced that it was love that sustained him. And that love obviously endures, 45 years after his death.
So after you see the sharks, check out Blackie's Pasture, too. Bring the kids and take their picture sitting on Blackie's statue.
And tell them Blackie's story so they'll understand that this is history, too, even if it isn't in the history books.

Where Have All The Folkies Gone?

2011-07-19T14:32:00.000-07:00

Hey, Baby Boomers! Did you know that the theme music from "Bonanza" actually has lyrics? They go like this:
"Hoss and Jo and Adam know/every rock and pine/No one works, fights or eats/like those boys of mine."
The chorus, of course, is mostly instrumental: "Dum da da dum da da dum da da dum Bonanza/Dum da da dum da da dum da da dum dada dum dada dum dum dum."
I found this out from Ed Labowitz, who is ¼ of the quartet The Folk Collection, which will appear Aug. 6 at the Freight & Salvage in downtown Berkeley. The "Bonanza" theme is part of a medley of great TV western theme songs of the 1950s and '60s, which they perform in three-part harmony.
Among them: "The Ballad of Davy Crockett" ("Born on a mountain top in Tennessee/Greenest state in the land of the free."), "Wyatt Earp" ("Brave, courageous and bold") and "Rawhide" (Rollin', rollin', rollin'/Though the streams are swollen/Keep them dogies rollin'/Rawhide/Hah!").
They also sing classics from the folk music boom of the same era, including hits by The Kingston Trio, The Limeliters, The Brothers Four and The New Christy Minstrels.
"We're not a cover band," he says. "We don't try to imitate these groups. We've taken the songs we grew up with and weaved them into our own show, while respectfully recalling those who wrote and performed these tunes."
In addition to being eclectic, the group is also ecumenical. Guitarist Tony Unger is an associate Baptist minister and fellow guitarist Mike Sirota is a cantor at two synagogues in Southern California.
In a happy irony, Labowitz is an entertainment lawyer who numbers among his clients, both past and present, many of the groups whose songs he sings, including The Kingston Trio and The Limeliters.
"These guys were my idols," he says. "And now I not only represent them, I get to sing their music. It's a dream come true."
Singing, humming and clapping along with the music is not only permitted, it's strongly encouraged. And bring the kids and grandkids.
"We get a real kick out of watching teenagers, who reluctantly come to the show as a favor to their parents or grandparents, leave smiling and humming tunes we sang," says bass player Bob Packham.
* * *
Remember Eddie and Shirley Jones, the elderly couple in West Oakland whose home was foreclosed last April?
It could have been a death sentence for the 10 feral cats they had been feeding in their basement because that basement was the only home the cats had ever known.
But an Alameda volunteer group called Island Cat Resources and Adoptions came to the rescue, humanely trapping the cats and offering to find them new homes.
But who would offer their backyards for these hapless creatures to live in? Although they were feral, they weren't wild or aggressive - just shy. All they needed was safe outdoor spaces in which they could live out their natural lives.
So I turned to you readers for help. And, as usual, you came through with flying colors. All ten 10 kitties have been placed in backyards throughout the East Bay.
"We miss them and talk about them all the time, but we can't have any animals where we're living now," says Shirley. "Please thank everyone for having compassion for them."
But there are always more homeless cats. Some, especially kittens, are tame enough to be placed directly in new homes. Others, like the cats in this story, are too shy to live indoors but perfectly capable of thriving in someone's backyard.
If you can offer your home or yard to one or more of these sweet, gentle creatures, please visit the ICRA website at www.icraeastbay.org or call 510-869-2584. And if you can't, that's also the place to make a much-needed financial contribution.

For A Dancer

2011-07-10T13:25:00.000-07:00

I'm feeling two emotions right now: deep sadness at the passing of Betty Ford and deep gratitude that fate arranged an improbable, almost Rube Goldberg-like sequence of events that led to this wonderful woman becoming First Lady just when we desperately needed her.
So many people have so many reasons to be grateful to Betty Ford.
Feminists love her because she made feminism mainstream. In an era when political wives played the role of doting little helpmate, she supported the Equal Rights Amendment and quipped to the White House Correspondents dinner, "You've heard me say many times that whatever makes Jerry happy makes me happy. And if you believe that, you are indeed unworthy of your profession."
Cancer survivors love her because she brought cancer, especially breast cancer, out of the closet and gave millions of women the courage to face their fears and get mammograms.
Recovering addicts love here because she did the same for substance abuse, inspiring millions to seek treatment and turn their lives around.
And I love her because she healed the generation gap.
It's hard now to remember the intensity of the generational war that was going on at the time.
This was in the wake of Kent State, Jackson State and People's Park, where students had been killed and "The Great Silent Majority" had applauded. President Nixon called the dead students "bums" and implied that they got what they deserved.
A lot of us felt like a disinherited generation. I don't want to get too Freudian about it, but it felt like Big Daddy had thrown us out in the cold.
Betty Ford changed all that. Shortly after she moved into the White House she was interviewed by Morley Safer on "60 Minutes," and he asked her what she'd do if she found out her teenage daughter Susan was having an affair.
Instead of playing it safe, she did something unprecedented in politics: She gave an honest answer.
"I wouldn't be surprised," she said. "I think she's a perfectly normal human being, like all girls. If she wanted to continue it, I would certainly counsel and advise her on the subject. And I'd want to know pretty much about the young man."
The firestorm from the right was instantaneous. "Involving any prominent individual, this would be a disgusting spectacle," sneered one newspaper. "Coming from the First Lady in the White House, it disgraces the nation itself."
But it sent a very healing message to millions of other people. People Susan's age. People like me.
It was as if she'd thrown open the windows of the White House and cried, "Come home, children! All is forgiven!"
And we did come home. It wasn't long afterwards that we stopped calling our parents "The Establishment" and started calling them by another name: The Greatest Generation.
Thirteen years ago, on her 80th birthday, I wrote a column expressing some of these sentiments; and I was delighted to receive a letter from her in reply. It's one of my most treasured possessions.
"Over the years I have said many things while being interviewed, and it is nice to know my candidness had special meaning," she wrote. "Being honest is still the best policy, even if it gets you in trouble on some occasions."
Thanks for everything, First Mama.

Mad About Mozart

2011-07-03T15:06:00.000-07:00

A timely teapot saved the day at the Midsummer Mozart Festival's annual garden party in El Cerrito last Saturday.
The party is the traditional kickoff for the Festival itself, which will take place later this month.
Between the first and second movements of Mozart's great Quintet for Piano and Winds (the piece that first made me fall in love with Mozart when I was a teenager, by the way) concertmaster Robin Hansen turned to the audience and said, "Anybody got a rock?"
The problem was that the foot pedal attached to pianist Miles Graber's electric piano kept slipping out from underneath his foot, and they needed something heavy to anchor it in place.
Voila! Denise Sangster, who was hosting the party at her home, popped into the kitchen and emerged with an orange teapot filled with water. They stuck it behind the foot pedal, and Mozart's quintet proceeded without further ado.
As I sat back and drank in the delicious music, I was reminded that there's only one thing better than Mozart, and that's Mozart live.
Let's face it: Music is the king of the arts. (Why do you think musicians get the prettiest girls?)
Don't get me wrong: I love words. They're my stock in trade. And I love the visual arts, from Medieval to modern times.
But not even the greatest writers, like Shakespeare, or the greatest painters, like Rembrandt, can touch the places in the human heart, mind and body that music can.
If you don't believe me, when was the last time a good book made you want to get up and dance? When was the last time a painting made you weep for reasons you can't explain?
And the greatest music of all - and by "greatest," I mean the most fun - is Mozart's. It's so good, you don't have to know anything about music to be instantly captivated.
You don't have to be a music snob, either. Take me, for instance: I'm just an old rock'n'roller. But not even Jerry Lee Lewis singing "Whole Lotta Shakin' Going On" can match Mozart. Dude has chops!
The Festival will perform nine different pieces over two weeks, including the "Coronation" piano concerto, symphonies Nos. 20, 36 and 39, and the gorgeous clarinet concerto.
The concerts will take place July 14 & 21 at the California Theater in San Jose, July 15 & 22 at First Congregational Church in Berkeley, July 16 & 23 at the Gundlach Bundschu Winery in Sonoma, and July 17 & 24 at Herbst Theater in San Francisco. For details and tickets, visit www.midsummermozart.org or call 415-627-9141.
This is Festival's 37th year, making it the country's longest running annual festival dedicated exclusively to Mozart. The performers include the cream of the crop of Bay Area musicians, who also play for such august organizations as the San Francisco Symphony, San Francisco Opera and Symphony Silicon Valley.
"But even though we play for those groups, these two weeks are the highlight of our musical year," says Hansen. "The music itself creates endorphins in people. Every year, I still get chills while performing certain pieces, and the audience does as well. I look in the audience, and I see people with eyes closed and a smile on their face."
P.S. Happy birthday to the Festival's artistic director, Maestro George Cleve, who turns 75 on Saturday.

Just Celebrate, Baby

2011-06-30T21:32:00.000-07:00

When the Oakland Tribune's longtime sports editor, Bob Valli, retired in 1993, a bunch of us who worked at the paper decided to throw him a retirement party.
We asked him to tell us whom to invite, and the first name on his list was Al Davis.
"Come on, Bob!" I said. "He'll never come! Everybody knows he's a recluse."
"He'll come," Bob said. "You'll see."
And, of course, Bob was right. Davis was the first person to arrive that night and the last to leave.
Why? Because back in the '60s Bob had been the Tribune's pro football reporter, covering the Raiders during their early days. And in Davis's mind, that made Bob part of the family.
And that, I think, is the key to understanding the Raiders owner, who will turn 82 on July 4.
If you're part of the family, there's nothing he won't do for you. Just ask Art Shell, whom he made the first African American head coach in the NFL.
Or Tom Flores, whom he made the first Mexican American head coach. Or Amy Trask, whom he made the first female CEO. Or players like Jim Otto, who have remained close to Davis long after their playing days were over.
On the other hand, if he views you as an enemy - or, even worse, an apostate - watch out! Just ask Marcus Allen, Jon Gruden, Lane Kiffin or Pete Rozelle.
I once was talking with the late Dr. Bob Albo, the Raiders' team physician and Davis' personal friend, and we agreed that the person Davis most resembled was Frank Sinatra.
Some people might have thought of Davis and Sinatra as bad guys, but they didn't care because they lived according to a code of conduct that they considered superior to society's.
It's a tribal code, really: indifferent to outsiders but extremely caring and kind to members of the tribe.
When a good friend of his, an Alameda County Superior Court judge, was dying of cancer, Davis would send a limousine to his house to take him to Raiders home games. The limo parked in a secluded part of the Coliseum where nobody could see it, so the judge could watch the game without having to get out of the car.
But here's the catch: The judge's family family wouldn't let me write about this at the time because for Davis, even a hint that he might have done it for something as crass as publicity would have spoiled the pleasure for him.
True, the team has been in the doldrums lately. But there was a time when opposing players would run by the Raiders bench and yell, "Hey, Al! Trade for me! I want to be a Raider!"
And though some people still haven't forgiven him for moving the team to Los Angeles in 1982, he brought them back in 1995, didn't he?
He's like of Winston Churchill, who was originally elected to Parliament as a Conservative, crossed the aisle in 1904 to join the Liberals, then crossed the aisle again 20 years later to re-join the Conservatives.
As he took his seat on the Conservative bench, his erstwhile Liberal allies hooted at him, "Rat! Rat!"
Unperturbed, he replied, "Anyone can rat, but it takes a certain amount of ingenuity to re-rat."
Happy birthday, Mister D.

Good Shepherd

2011-06-20T15:50:00.000-07:00

(Above: Father Crespin greeting parishioners after Mass. Photo by Pat Brock.)

I know one person who is really going to hate this column: Rev. George Crespin, who is retiring as pastor emeritus of St. Joseph the Worker Church in Berkeley.
Why? Because this column is about him. And he's a very humble guy.
But I can't help it. When a good man like him calls it a career, attention must be paid.
Crespin, 75, was the first priest ordained in the Diocese of Oakland when it was split off from the Archdiocese of San Francisco in 1962. He was one of those bright young priests who came out the seminary fired with enthusiasm during the heady days of Vatican II.
The diocese's first bishop, the late Floyd Begin, and the second bishop, John Cummins, considered Crespin to be the best and brightest of the bunch, and they put him on a career fast track.
Begin appointed him chancellor of the diocese, and Cummins promoted him to the number two job, Vicar-General. It was clear that both hoped he would succeed them as the diocese's third bishop.
But Crespin turned his back on all that. He didn't want to be a high-ranking prelate; all he wanted to do was be a simple parish priest. And, after years of trying to talk him out of it, they finally let him have his way.
For the last three decades he's been the epitome of what a parish priest should be. He's the guy you call at 3 a.m. when your mother is sick or your kid is in trouble. He's the guy who is always there to welcome people to the church, whether he's saying Mass that day or not.
St. Joseph's was founded 132 years ago to serve the largely immigrant working class neighborhoods of west Berkeley. Back then, many of the immigrants were from Finland. Today, they're from Latin America. They found a home in St. Joseph's and a surrogate grandfather in their beloved "Father Jorge."
And his influence goes way beyond St. Joseph's. A couple of years ago a crisis erupted at Berkeley High when the security guards decided to strip some male students down to the waist to look for gang tattoos.
Trouble was, the students were Latino and the security guards were African American.
It looked like a race riot was about to explode until the school frantically called Crespin, who arrived and promptly calmed everything down.
Those tough teenagers trusted him because when they look at him they see that gentle old man who was so kind to them when they were little kids.
Small wonder the Berkeley school board passed a resolution in his honor last Wednesday.
Crespin's retirement isn't entirely voluntary. In a sense, he's collateral damage in an ongoing dispute between St. Joseph's current pastor and the parishioners. But I've already written about that controversy elsewhere in this paper. Today, I want to focus on Crespin and a life well lived.
In 1946 Crespin's hero, Pope John XXIII - then known as Angelo Roncalli - was appointed papal nuncio to France. He did so well, the head of the French Communist Party exclaimed, half in frustration and half in admiration, "If all priests were like Monsignor Roncalli, there would be no anti-clericals left!"
The same could be said about Rev. Crespin.

And here's the news story I referred to:

BERKELEY — A controversy over the direction of a liberal Catholic Church and its pastor continued this week.
On Sunday, about 150 parishioners of St. Joseph the Worker demonstrated outside the church protesting what they say is a more conservative direction the parish has taken the past two years under current pastor the Rev. John Direen.
The demonstration was timed to coincide with a visit by the Most Rev. Salvatore Cordileone, bishop of the Diocese of Oakland, which includes both Alameda and Contra Costa counties.
The demonstrators want Direen removed, and the pastor has generated controversy by ousting the Rev. George Crespin, St. Joseph’s long-time priest.
In the past, St. Joseph’s has been used to plan antiwar protests and labor organizing drives; it once was used as a safe house by United Farm Workers founder Cesar Chavez when his life was threatened.
The protesters claim Direen has dismissed the parish council and its Latino counterpart, the Consejo Latino.
Parishioners also assert that Direen has closed the conference room in the rectory to the church’s Social Justice Committee, the St. Vincent De Paul Society and Berkeley Organizing Community for Action, an interfaith political action group that lobbies the city and the school board on issues affecting the poor.
The conference room has been converted to a gift shop to raise funds for the parish, said Mike Brown spokesman for the diocese.
Brown said that Direen did not dismiss the council but named new members to replace members who had left due to attrition.
Cordileone met with many parishioners during his two day visit including a representative group of protestors, Brown said.
"The Bishop has offered to continue the dialogue with those who have matters they would like to discuss," he wrote in an e-mail.
The diocese is not discussing closing the parish, Brown said and Direen sees his mission as strengthening the parish’s financial position.
Crespin was informed three weeks ago that he had to leave St. Joseph’s by the end of this month.
More than 250 letters from parishioners protesting the developments at St. Joseph’s and Crespin’s dismissal have been sent to Cordileone. A similar letter contesting Crespin’s ouster was signed by 29 East Bay priests.
Brown said when Direen became the new pastor Crespin remained as pastor emeritus but the arrangement did not work out.
"It has generally been a difficult situation and this has increased and recently Fr. Direen made the decision that Fr. Crespin would leave the parish,"
The parishioners were silent until a Mass said by Cordileone was over. Then, as the church doors swung open, they began quietly chanting the Lord’s Prayer.
Berkeley police were called when the demonstrators attempted to reenter the church to talk with the bishop. Police left after determining the demonstration was peaceful and no arrests were made.
Protestors said they would not give up.
"This (protest) is very painful for us," said Delfina Geiken, chairwoman of the church’s St. Vincent De Paul Society. "We were raised to be deferential to the hierarchy. But we have no choice. We have to save our church."

A Good Dad

2011-06-17T13:04:00.001-07:00

This column is a Father's Day present for John Mullarkey of Albany from his nine children, 20 grandchildren and seven great-grandchildren.
It all started when I got an email from his youngest daughter, Elaine.
"I'm sure you receive many letters about people of greatness," she wrote. "Well, my father fits that description. I have attended so many funerals this past year, and I have learned so much about people after they are no longer here. I thought, 'Wouldn't it be nice to learn more about a person before their obituary is printed?' I would like to celebrate my father before that time."
I was intrigued, so I went to visit her dad. And he's even more impressive than advertised.
He quit high school at age 17 to join the Navy after Pearl Harbor, leaving his childhood sweetheart, Agnes Correia, behind. They wrote each other every day.
He served on the USS Hornet in the South Pacific. Then he came home, married Agnes, and worked his tail off as an electrician to support their growing family.
For an extremely humble man, he's proud of a lot of things: proud of serving in the Navy, proud of being Catholic - he's one of the pillars of St. Ambrose Church, doing everything from serving on parish committees to sweeping the floors - and proud of being a member of Local 595 of the International Brotherhood of Electrical Workers for more than 50 years.
"He can recount stories about every job he ever worked on, including the names of the electricians he worked with," says his son, Tom. "He always felt best about helping the women and minority workers. He grew up on the tough side of town, and he has a soft spot for the less fortunate."
Most of all, he's proud of his family, bragging about them every chance he gets.
"One of Dad's greatest qualities is the fact that he does not judge any of us," says his daughter, Cathy. "He tries to be constructive and helpful instead of critical."
A few years ago, he found out that one of his grandchildren is gay. His response was to burst into tears - not because the child is gay, but because of what the poor kid must have suffered from the social stigma.
He and Agnes - an extraordinary person in her own right - were married for 63 years until she died last year.
His kids make sure he's not alone. At least twice a week he has dinner with one of them. After everything he's done for them, they consider it a privilege do a little for him.
Every morning he picks up his granddaughter, Jillian, 9, and takes her to school. Then he gets his daily visit from Jillian's little sister, Callie, 20 months. He reads to her from her favorite book, "Humpty Dumpty," and they play together. She bosses him around, and he eats it up.
After he and Callie have lunch together, he goes to Casper's Hot Dogs on San Pablo Avenue and shoots the breeze with some longtime buddies. Then he spends the rest of the day visiting shut-ins on missions of mercy.
He's the salt of the earth, the kind of person who made America great. Happy Father's Day to him - and to all you other good dads, too.

How Tweet It Is!

2011-06-09T13:29:00.000-07:00

(Above: Caitlin, Theo and Austin performing their winning call)

Austin Kelley, Caitlin Baldridge, Theo Quayle, Jermy Kruger, Augie Grahn, Andrew Gage, Zach Piser, Andrew Moorhead and Tlalli Moya-Smith are back home in Piedmont after flying to New York on May 24 to appear on "The Late Show With David Letterman."
They were the winners of the 46th annual Piedmont High School Birdcalling Contest. Austin, Caitlin and Theo took first place for their mating call of the American Coot; Jeremy, Augie and Andrew placed second for the Trumpeter Hornbill; and Zach, Andrew and Tlalli won third place with their call of the Wood Stork.
It was business as usual, including the stern don't-try-to-be-funny-let-Dave-make-the-jokes lecture from one of the producers before the show. Letterman flirted with the girls and bantered with the boys, as he always does.
While talking with Tlalli about her upcoming jaw surgery, he got into one of his obsessive "Oprah-Uma" moods, when he just can't let something rest. But Tlalli took it all in stride.
And the banter with Augie got so heated, the producers worried that it might look like Letterman was picking on him. So they cut the bit when the show aired - much to Augie's disappointment.
Afterwards, the kids explored Manhattan - turning down a guy who tried to sell them fake Rolexes - bought souvenirs and ate overpriced food.
"Twenty bucks for a burger?" Theo says incredulously.
They flew home with free "Late Show" T-shirts, some unforgettable memories and $200 checks.
The winners' names will also be inscribed on the Leonard J. Waxdeck Trophy, named after the biology teacher who created the contest as a class project in 1963 and guided it until his death in 1994.
The contest went big time in 1975, when Johnny Carson had the kids on "The Tonight Show," beginning a yearly tradition that continued until he retired in 1992.
Waxdeck asked Carson's successor, Jay Leno, to continue the tradition. But Leno was so anxious to get out from under Carson's shadow, he wouldn't touch anything associated with Johnny.
Fortunately, Letterman, who worshipped Carson, was delighted to have the birdcallers on his show. They made their first appearance in 1993, and there they have appeared every year since.
But the rules were a little different. Carson had let Waxdeck decide who would be on the show, and he invariably picked the first, second and third place winners, plus the graduating seniors.
But Letterman insisted on making the choice himself. After viewing a tape of the contest, his producers would select four acts to come to New York. Some years, none of the contest winners were chosen.
Even worse, after the dress rehearsal the producers would cut one of the acts. The kids always put a brave face on it, but they must have been brokenhearted.
But six years ago a new principal named Randy Booker took over at Piedmont High. And one of the first things he did was tell Letterman's producers that from now on, it would be all or nothing.
It was a gutsy thing to do because they could have told him to get lost. But instead, they blinked. And ever since then, the contest winners have been chosen to go to New York. And they all have appeared on the show.
Big props to you, Randy Booker!

Good reads for the summer

2011-05-31T15:42:00.000-07:00

Perhaps the most eagerly awaited of all my columns each year is the annual summer reading list for children. For years, it was compiled by Helen Dittmer, the beloved librarian at Redwood Day School in Oakland. Since her retirement, the tradition has been continued by her successor, Jen Ammenti. And here are Ms. Ammenti's suggestions for this summer.
For Kindergarten, 1st, 2nd and 3rd graders, she recommends both prose and picture books.
For prose books, anything by Mo Willems, Leo Lionni, Lauren Child, Doreen Cronin, Patricia Polacco, Allen Say, Mac Barnett, Amy Krouse Rosenthal or James Howe would be great.
For picture books, she likes "The Dark Emperor & Other Poems of the Night" by Joyce Sidman, "Interrupting Chicken" by David Ezra Stein, "Dave the Potter Artist, Poet, Slave" by Laban Carrick Hill, "A Sick Day for Amos McGee" by Philip C. Stead, "Chalk" by Bill Thomson, "Hip-Pocket Papa" by Sandra Markle, "LMNOpeas" by Keith Baker, "Guess Again" by Mac Barnett and "Horace and Morris but Mostly Dolores" by James Howe.
For 3rd and 4th Graders, she recommends "The Bat Scientists" by Mary Kay Carson, "Mirror Mirror" by Marilyn Singer, "Spaceheadz" by Jon Scieszka, "The Ninth Ward by Jewell Parker Rhodes, Riding Freedom by Pam Munoz Ryan, The Birchbark House" by Louise Erdrich, "The Mysterious Benedict Society" by Trenton Lee Stewart, "The Memory Bank" by Carolyn Coman, "Growing Patterns Fibonacci Numbers in Nature" by Sarah C. Campbell, "The Night Fairy" by Laura Amy Schlitz, "Tales Dark and Grimm" by Adam Gidwitz, "The Brixton Brothers 2: The Ghostwriter's Secret" by Mac Barnett, "The One in the Middle is the Green Kangaroo" by Judy Blume, "Zorgamazoo" by Robert Paul Weston and "Bunnicula" by Deborah and James Howe.
For 5th and 6th Graders, she suggests "One Crazy Summer" by Rita Williams-Garcia, "90 Miles to Havana" by Enrique Flores-Galbis, "Scat" by Carl Hiassen, "The Strange Case of the Origami Yoda" by Tom Angleberger, "Moon Over Manifest" by Clare Vanderpool, "Summerland" by Michael Chabon, "Shooting Kabul" by N.H. Senzai, "Blubber" by Judy Blume, "Out of my Mind" by Sharon Draper, "Heart of a Samurai" by Margi Preus, "The Secret Life of Ms. Finkleman" by Ben H. Winters, "Cracker! The Best Dog in Vietnam" by Cynthia Kadohata, "The Birchbark House" by Louise Erdrich and "Eat Your Poison, Dear" by James Howe.
For 7th and 8th graders, please note that these books contain mature subject matter, and parents should determine their appropriateness for their child: "Buddha Boy" by Kathe Koja, "The Things a Brother Knows" by Dana Reinhardt, "The Maze Runner by James Dashner, "Graceling" by Kristin Cashore, "Boy Meets Boy" by David Levithan, "Going Bovine" by Libba Bray, "The Firefly Letters" by Margarita Engle, "Ship Breaker" by Paolo Bacigalupi, "King of the Screwups" by K.L. Going, "Yummy: The Last Day of a Southside Shorty" by G.Neri, "Ribbons" by Lawrence Yep, "The Adoration of Jenna Fox by Mary E. Pearson and "Mouse Traps" by Pat Schmatz.
"Some are new award winners, some are old goodies, and some are just my favorites," she says. "Remember, what's right for one doesn't necessarily mean right for all. The important part is that you keep reading this summer. Ask your friends, browse a library, choose from this list - do whatever it takes to find your favorites. Happy summer reading!"

Goodbye, Ms. Claus

2011-05-27T14:07:00.000-07:00

One day 25 years ago, Elma Ramirez, consumer affairs manager for the U.S. Postal Service's Bay Valley District (which covers both Alameda and Contra Costa counties), walked into the dead letter office in downtown Oakland and discovered thousands of children's letters to Santa Claus that had ended up there because the post office didn't know what else to do with them.
She started reading them, and she was shaken by what she read. Their desperation, together with their touching faith that somebody, somewhere, might be listening, broke her heart.
So she and a few of her co-workers started answering them. They dug into their own pockets to buy little gifts for the children, but even more important was letting the kids know that somebody out there cares.
It quickly became obvious that they would need help to handle the huge volume, so the next year Elma decided to enlist the public.
That's where I came in. For 24 years, I have printed some of the letters in the newspaper and asked you readers to help. And for 24 years, you have come through with flying colors.
Each of us has our favorite letters. I remember the boy who wrote, "Dear Santa, I'm Jewish and I know I shouldn't believe in you, but I can't help it," and the girl who asked, "Santa, do you know Jesus? Are you friends? Please say hi to him for me."
But the ones that will stay with me always are the ones from desperately poor children who say, "Santa, you don't have to bring me anything, but could you please bring shoes for my little brother?"
These kids are the true spirit of Christmas. Their generosity and faith put us to shame.
Alas, all good things must come to an end, and Elma is retiring after 39 years on the job. Tuesday, May 31, will be her last day.
She has asked me to thank you, the readers, for supporting this program.
"They have been incredibly generous and understanding," she says. "Even in the face of changing regulations, they have always come through for the children."
And she has nothing but praise for her dedicated staff - David Thompson, Janet Ezell, Brenda Presley, Margarita Cristobal, Nina Tan, Toni Harmon and Carmen Bouchet - who have been with her every step of the way.
So will the Santa letters program continue after her retirement? Elma sure hopes so.
"I hope it doesn't stop with me. This has become part of the postal service's tradition, and I hope it lasts forever, even in hard times. ESPECIALLY in hard times."
If you'd like this wonderful program to continue, please drop a note to Kim Fernandez, district manager of the Bay Valley District, at 1675 7th St., Oakland 94615.
He's been very supportive in the past, as has Elma's immediate boss, marketing manager James Tatum. But I have a hunch they could use some positive feedback from the public as evidence to convince their higher-ups back in Washington, DC.
And if you'd like to thank Elma herself, you can drop her a line c/o the consumer affairs division at 201 13th Street, Room 228, Oakland 94612.
She's a great lady, and I'm going to miss her terribly. And the best way to honor her is to keep her legacy going.

Good Eats

2011-05-15T12:03:00.000-07:00

(Above: Paul and Renee)

Whenever my sister, who lives in Los Angeles, comes to visit, the first thing we always do is have dinner at her favorite Chinese restaurant, Renee's Place in Albany. (She's addicted to the rolling lettuce chicken; I usually go for the orange beef.)
The restaurant has been owner Renee Wang's dream ever since she came to this country from China in 1986, leaving behind a promising career as first violin with the Shanghai Chamber Orchestra.
After working in restaurants for 10 years, she finally saved enough to open up her own place in 1996. And she made it exactly the way she wanted it: only the freshest organic ingredients; a peaceful, even serene, atmosphere and, above, all, strict adherence to authenticity.
It's a foodie's paradise. But, unfortunately, not even a great restaurant like this is immune to the recession, and Renee and her staff are struggling hard to keep it going.
Meanwhile, I read in the paper that the A.G. Ferrari chain of high-end Italian specialty food stores has filed for Chapter 11 bankruptcy.
This doesn't mean they're going out of business. But still, it's an alarming sign.
I've known the owner, Paul Ferrari, for 15 years. His story started long before he was born - in 1917, when his grandfather, Annabile, was a teenager in Italy. Annabile's older brother, Camillo, was drafted into the army and killed in World War I.
When their father heard the news, he turned to Annabile and said, "That's it! I'm not giving them another son to kill! Tomorrow, you leave for America!"
Six weeks later, young Annabale arrived in San Francisco. He worked hard and saved his money, and in 1919 he opened his first specialty food store, which eventually grew to 13.
When Paul inherited the business in 1994, his contribution was to take it back to its roots. Paradoxically, the food at A.G. Ferrarri is even more authentic today than it was in his grandfather's day.
Paul gets his pickled green tomatoes from a convent of Trappist nuns who live outside Rome. His olive oil comes from an Italian count named Duccio Corsini, who lives in Tuscany and gives his farm workers their choice: They can be paid either in cash or in olive oil. They always choose the olive oil.
His sunflower honey comes from a beekeeper named Daniele Devalle ("Daniel of the valley") who lives in Piedmont (Italy, not California).
But not every year. Recently, some of the bees started straying to neighboring fields. The honey was still delicious, but it wasn't 100 percent sunflower. For a purist like Devalle, that's an imfamata.
"I won't sell it to you because you're a fellow Italian," he told Paul. "I'll sell it to the Germans; it's good enough for them." (Demonstrating once again that the Italians still haven't forgiven the Germans for World War II.)
But the good news is that the Trappist nuns have promised to pray for the bees. So keep your fingers crossed.
I've written many columns saying we should rally around our local schools and non-profits in these hard times. But local businesses like Renee's Place and A.G. Ferrari are a vital part of our community, too.
Whatever your favorite local business is, it deserves your support. We all need to take care of each other.

Going For Broke

2011-05-08T10:46:00.001-07:00

(Above: Sadeo Munemori, who was awarded the Medal of Honor for throwing himself on a live hand grenade to save his buddies. He had volunteered for the 442nd from the Manzanar detention camp, to which he and his family had been sent shortly after Pearl Harbor. He was only 22 when he died. The date was April 5, 1945 - the day I was born. I don't think it's a stretch to say he died so I could live.)

You've heard the cliché about how the French hate Americans? I don't know if that's true, but I do know one group of Americans they definitely don't hate.
Au contraire, mes amis. They absolutely love these guys. They build statues of them and name their streets after them.
I'm talking about the 442nd Regimental Combat Team, the famous Japanese American World War II regiment that was awarded more medals, man for man, than any other unit in American history.
They liberated city after city in France. And though it happened more than 65 years ago, the French haven't forgotten.
I found this out a few years ago when I accompanied veterans of the 442nd when they went back to France to visit some of the places they liberated.
As we drove into the city of Bruyeres, the banners overhead didn't say, "Welcome to our liberators," as I had expected, but "Welcome to our saviors," instead.
They weren't kidding. The German commandant in Bruyeres, the imfamous Klaus Barbie (aka the Butcher of Lyons), was scheduled to execute hundreds of resistance fighters on the day the 442nd arrived and spoiled his plans.
One of those rescued was a teenager named Francois Mitterrand, who grew up to become President of France.
Official duties prevented him from being on hand to welcome the 442nd veterans back, but another boy who also was rescued that day was present.
His name was Serge Carlesso, and he was only 10 the day the 442nd liberated Bruyeres. His leg had been blown off by a German shell earlier that morning, and the 442nd medics arrived in the nick of time to save his life.
Serge proudly introduced the veterans to his grandson Laurent, who was the same age that he was that fateful day so long ago.
The excitement began even before we arrived, when the mayors of Bruyeres and Biffontaine got into a fistfight over which town would have the honor of having the 442nd guys march in its Bastille Day parade.
Bruyeres won, but the mayor of Biffontaine got even by hosting a gala banquet for the veterans the night before. Not to be outdone, the mayor of Bruyeres retaliated by throwing his own banquet the next day.
The Bastille Day parade itself was like something out of the old newsreels. People were literally weeping for joy, tossing flowers at the veterans from windows and rooftops. Mothers held their babies up for them to bless. And, yes, the street they were marching down was named Rue de 442.
It was one of the happiest scenes of pure, unabashed public joy I've ever seen in my life, right up with the night Obama got elected and the night Bin Laden got killed.
At this stage in their lives, the men of the 442nd don't get back to France very often anymore. But they still come to Oakland every spring to hold a memorial service in Roberts Park to honor their fallen brothers - and, by extension, all veterans of World War II.
This year's service will be held at noon on Saturday, May 21, and they cordially invite you to join them. Roberts Park is on Skyline Boulevard, on the way to the Chabot Space & Science Center.
I hope to see you there.

Long May He Wave

2011-05-08T10:36:00.000-07:00

Wavy Gravy, the raspy-voiced 1960s icon who famously announced to the crowd at Woodstock, "What we have in mind is breakfast in bed for 400,000," will turn 75 on Sunday. And what a long, strange trip it's been.
Wavy - whom satirist Paul Krassner calls "a cross between Harpo Marx and Mother Theresa" - will celebrate with a public "Birthday Boogie" Saturday night at the Craneway Pavilion in Richmond, featuring a Who's Who of the Bay Area music scene including Bob Weir and Mickey Hart of the Grateful Dead, Barry Melton of Country Joe and the Fish, Henry Kaiser, Ace of Cups, and Narada Michael Walden.
It's a fundraiser for Wavy's favorite charity, the Seva (a Sanskrit word for "service to humankind") Foundation, which Wavy co-founded in 1978 with spiritual leader Ram Dass and public health expert Larry Brilliant to fight preventable and curable blindness in Asia and Africa.
"Thirty years and three million eye surgeries later, we're still truckin'!" he says.
Wavy, who describes himself as "an activist clown and former frozen dessert" - a reference to Ben & Jerry's naming a flavor after him - was born Hugh Romney on May 15, 1936 in East Greenbush, New York. But soon afterward his family moved to Princeton, New Jersey, where one of his neighbors was a kindly old man named Albert Einstein, who took him on daily walks around the block.
"I was only five, but I still remember that shock of white hair that predated Don King by half a century, the twinkle in his eye, his sneakers with no logo, and, especially, the way he smelled.
"I've never smelled anything like it since; but if I ever do, I'm gonna walk up to the guy and say, 'Hey man, you smell like Albert Einstein!'"
Flash forward 20 years to Greenwich Village in the early 1960s, where he found a job as poetry director at the Gaslight Café.
He shared a room above the café with a fledgling songwriter from Minnesota named Bob Dylan, who wrote the first draft of "A Hard Rain Is Gonna Fall" on an old manual typewriter in that room.
One of the café's steady customers was Marlene Dietrich, who gave him a book of poems by Rilke.
"I still have the book, but I still haven't read the poems," he confesses.
At about this time he embarked on a career as a monologist, "talking about the weird stuff that had happened to me," opening shows for John Coltrane, Thelonious Monk and Peter, Paul & Mary.
His manager was standup comic Lenny Bruce, who gave him a new stage name: Al Dente. Bruce also gave him a yarmulke sewn inside a cowboy hat that once belonged to silent movie star Tom Mix "so I could say, 'Howdy, Goyim!'"
Next, he formed a musical review with Tiny Tim and Moondog at a dubious venue called the Fat Black Pussycat.
"We got front page in the Village Voice and a rave review in the New York Times," he recalls. "The next day the sheriff came and padlocked the joint for back taxes."
So he headed out to San Francisco, where he did a stint with The Committee, then moved to Los Angeles, where he taught improvisational techniques to Hollywood actors by day and neurologically handicapped kids by night.
In 1965, when he and his wife, Jahanara (then called Bonnie Jean), were living in a one-room cabin outside Los Angeles with about 40 friends, including fellow ice cream flavor Jerry Garcia, they all posed for a Life magazine cover photo.
"The landlord freaked out and evicted us, but the next day a neighbor came by and said, 'Old Saul up on the mountain had a stroke, and they need somebody to slop them hogs!' So we were given the mountain top rent-free if we would take care of about 60 hogs the size of Davenports."
And so the Hog Farm was born. Eventually, the Hog Farm moved north to Black Oak Ranch in Laytonville, which boasts a lake - Lake Veronica - with a raft named George and a 350-foot water slide from Marine World.
In 1969 the Hog Farmers were hired by the promoters of the Woodstock Music Festival to build fire trails around the festival grounds.
"But we convinced them to let us set up a free kitchen, too. When we got to JFK Airport a bunch of reporters were there to meet us, and they told us we had been chosen to provide the security, too. I said, 'My God! They made us the cops?'"
By the time the festival was over, Wavy - or as he was still known, Hugh Romney - had become the MC.
A few weeks later, he was performing similar tasks at the Texas Pop Festival, where the great bluesman B.B. King dubbed him "Wavy Gravy." And Wavy Gravy he has remained ever since - except in the pages of the New York Times, which refers to him as "Mr. Gravy."
It was inevitable that the free kitchen concept would be expanded internationally, and when a horrible flood struck Pakistan, Wavy knew what to do.
"We'd had so much attention from the free kitchen at Woodstock, we thought if were in Pakistan with any kind of food, it would embarrass the government into speeding up food relief."
When war broke out between Pakistan and India, the Hog Farmers "hung a left into Kathmandu" and continued their work in Nepal and Tibet, building playgrounds and distributing food and medical supplies on the way. In Nepal they met large numbers of blind people, most of them suffering from conditions that were easily preventable or treatable.
And so the Seva Foundation was born, with help from $10,000 in seed money from rock promoter Bill Graham.
"Bill had no idea what it was all about, so I was flabbergasted when he gave me the check," Wavy recalls. "I asked him, 'Why are you doing this?' And he said, 'Because you did not hit on me, my friend.'"
In addition to fighting blindness in the Third World, the foundation has branched out in recent years to prevent diabetes and other chronic health problems in Native American communities in the U.S.
In 1975 Wavy launched Camp Winnarainbow, a clown camp at the Hog Farm offering sessions for both adults and children, who learn juggling, unicycling, tightrope walking, trapeze, music and art.
"Grownup camp is just like kids' camp, except you get to stay up late and you don't have to brush your teeth," he says. "We're not trying to turn out little professional circus stars. We're trying to produce universal human beings who can deal with whatever comes down the pike with some style and grace."
The camp offers scholarships to homeless children from the Bay Area and Native American kids from a reservation in South Dakota, funded by Wavy's royalties from Ben & Jerry's ice cream sales.
Only one rule at Camp Winnarainbow: No drugs.
"We're very firm about that," he says. "I can do nicely, but lots of people can't get stoned and work."
These days, Wavy splits his time between the Hog Farm and his home in Berkeley, a communal house that he calls the Hippie Hyannisport. Every nook is filled with books, beads, Buddhas, incense, wind-up teeth, moose antlers and Mickey Mouse and Goofy figurines. Dominating the scene is an enormous, larger-than-life portrait of Wavy.
"David Crosby bought it at a flea market. He held on to it for two years, then he mailed it to me. He said he couldn't stand me staring at him any more."
So what's next for Wavy Gravy?
"I don't know. As Tiny Tim always used to say to me, 'Time will tell.'"

Love Never Dies

2011-05-04T13:06:00.000-07:00

On this day in 1979, there was a knock on my door, and I opened it to find four little kids from the elementary school across the street, holding a tiny gray tabby kitten.
"Mister, did you lose this kitty?" they asked.
"No," I said, "but I'll take her."
This was my introduction to Eliza Doolittle, my first cat. We were together for almost 17 years.
Eliza died in 1996. Since then, she has been succeeded by Nelly Custis (who, alas, was killed when she was still a kitten) and the current incumbent, Phoebe Pember.
I love Phoebe dearly, and we've been together for almost 15 years. But I still think of Eliza every day, and I still miss her (as I do Nelly).
If there really is a heaven, I don't want to see my parents or a lot of other people I knew. But I'd give anything to see Eliza again.

Knowledge Is Power

2011-05-02T16:29:00.000-07:00

Wilson Elementary School in Richmond, where I used to work as a substitute teacher, is an example of everything that's right and everything that's wrong with our schools.
The right part is the students and teachers. The kids are so sweet and so eager to learn. And the teachers are so dedicated, despite laboring under constant fear of losing their jobs.
But the wrong part is the appalling lack of resources. All the cultural enrichment programs have been cut, and these are kids who desperately need them because many have never had the cultural experiences that you and I take for granted.
Many have never been to a ball game. Or the library. They have never traveled on BART. Or seen San Francisco, or the ocean, or snow. They have never seen the Cal campus, much less allowed themselves to dream that they might go to school there someday.
But for the past 28 years a non-profit support group called the West Contra Costa Public Education Fund - Ed. Fund for short - has tried to fill in the gaps. A few years ago it gave a $500 mini-grant to Wilson to fund a music program - the only music program in the school. The grant paid for tiny flutes called soprano recorders.
$500 isn't much, but it's made a huge difference. Now 180 4th, 5th and 6th graders each year have instruments to play. There's nothing cuter than little kids singing and playing their flutes. There's such joy on their faces.
And the ripple effects keep coming. The children are not only learning to work with others, they're learning a priceless life lesson: If you keep practicing something, you get better at it.
Oh, and by the way, their test scores are climbing, even in non-musical subjects. Not surprisingly, so is their self-esteem.
The Ed. Fund has distributed 67 mini-grants like this at 36 different schools in the district over the last 12 months, impacting nearly 10,000 children.
At Wilson the grant went for musical instruments, but at other schools the money pays for phys ed, which has also been cut.
At yet another school, the mini-grant funded a science project called the Egg Drop Challenge, where the kids learn the mathematical relationships between mass, velocity, elevation and acceleration by dropping eggs from steadily increasing heights until they break.
The teachers come up with the ideas themselves, then the Ed. Fund comes up with the money.
And the more money the Ed. Fund has, the more worthy projects it can underwrite. It throws an annual Excellence In Education Banquet as its chief fundraiser of the year, and this year the big bash will be at the Craneway Pavilion in Richmond on May 20.
It's always a great party. "We want people to be so wowed that they'll come back in droves again next year," says executive director Joel Mackey.
This year, the entertainment will feature the Jazz Mafia All-Stars, which includes some of the finest jazz musicians in the Bay Area, as well as the Pinole Valley High School Jazz Band.
For information and tickets, call 510-233-1464 or visit www.edfundwest.org. If you can't make the party but would still like to help, you can also contribute on the website.
Remember what Hilary Clinton said about it taking a whole village to raise a child. We are that village.

Safe And Sound

2011-05-01T09:50:00.001-07:00

Bella the cat is back home, safe and sound, after a three-day ordeal atop a 30-foot utility pole in Rodeo.
Bella, a 10-year-old tortoise shell, was spotted on April 15 by Ivy Ludwig
"The pole is in front of my home," she said. "Every time I walked out my front door, this poor cat was looking down at me with an expression that said, 'Please help me!"
Ludwig called the fire department and was told, "It'll probably come down by itself." But the next morning, the cat was still there. Not even a plate of tuna fish could tempt it to come down.
"That's not unusual," commented Gail Churchill of Island Cat Resources and Adoption, a feline rescue group in Alameda. "Most people don't realize that it's much easier for a cat to go up a tree or pole than to come down again because of the way its claws are curved."
Next, Ludwig called PG&E and was told the same thing: Wait for it to come down by itself.
The dispatcher told her it was too risky to attempt a rescue unless the power was shut off, which PG&E was reluctant to do.
"Had we de-energized our line, it would have caused a temporary outage in the neighborhood, and we always prefer not to disturb our customers," PG&E spokeswoman Tamar Sarkisian explained later. "We're not going to leave an animal up there, of course, but we do want to give it a chance to come down on its own."
Another day and night went by, and the cat was still there. That's when another neighbor, Jerry Johnson, got involved. He called the sheriff's office, who referred him to Contra Costa Animal Control.
"I had to do something," he said. "That cat had been up there for three days, and rain was in the forecast for that evening. I was getting really concerned."
Animal Control Officer Kelly Molino arrived and quickly sized up the situation.
"The cat was very tired, trying to lay down and find a place to rest her head. But she couldn't because of all the wires. It must have been very scary holding onto the top of that pole for three days."
Molino called PG&E, who told her they couldn't do anything without a request from the fire department. So she contacted Capt. Rick Perez of the Rodeo-Hercules Fire Department, who quickly arrived with Battalion Chief Bryan Craig, Engineer Skye Johnson and Paramedic John Bischoff.
Soon afterward, PG&E troubleshooter Anthony Miles arrived and huddled with Molino and the firefighters. They decided the best course would be to send Miles up in a bucket lift.
Ironically, they didn't turn the power off. "It turned out to be a secondary line, which wasn't as dangerous," Sarkisian explained.
Meanwhile, around the corner, Patricia Murray had been frantically trying to find her cat, Bella, who had been missing for three days.
"I was worried sick. She always comes home at dinnertime. I knew something was horribly wrong, but I had no idea where she was."
Back at the power pole, a small crowd of about a dozen people had gathered to watch the rescue. Tim Cagle, who just happened to be walking by, looked up and said, "Hey, I think that's my girlfriend's cat!" And he went home to fetch Murray.
Sure enough, it was Bella.
Miles tried to lasso Bella with a loop attached to a stick - the kind they use to capture stray dogs - but that didn't work. So he simply reached out and grabbed her, to cheers from the crowd.
"It was all over in five minutes," said Johnson. "You couldn't write a movie script better than that."
Miles descended and handed Bella to Molino, who promptly turned her over to Murray.
"She was purring like crazy," says Murray. "I wrapped her in a towel and took her home, and she did nothing but eat and sleep for the next 24 hours. But she's fine - not cuts, no broken bones, and no sign of being traumatized."
But it could have turned out very differently if Ludwig and Johnson hadn't called the authorities.
"The callers are the true heroes," said Molino. "We can't be everywhere, so they are our eyes and ears. That one phone call can save an animal's life; and the faster they make that call, the better. Time is precious."

Love For Loni

2011-04-24T15:27:00.001-07:00

On May 1 the Craneway Pavilion in Richmond was the site of a community celebration honoring state Senator Loni Hancock for her 40 years of public service.
It was the first public celebration ever held in her honor, for the simple reason that Hancock, who is famously shy - a curious trait for someone in politics - wouldn't allow it.
"She gets embarrassed by these things," says Roberta Brooks, former aide to Reps. Ron Dellums and Barbara Lee, who is one of the event's four MCs.
Brooks and the other three MCs - environmental scientist Sheila Daar, congressional aide Nancy Snow, and Ying Lee, who was Hancock's loyal ally on the Berkeley City Council back in the 1970s - are longtime members of Hancock's women's group, which has been meeting continuously for four decades.
"We started as a political support group for Loni," says Snow. "She was the only woman on the council, and even the other progressives were not friendly, to say the least."
"But it quickly became a consciousness raising group where all of us could get help from each other about everything," Daar adds.
Now they're closer than sisters.
"We go to each other's weddings," says Lee. "Our kids feel like siblings and think of us as aunties."
Hancock was first elected to the city council in 1971, quickly gaining a reputation as someone who could work with people on the other side without making everything personal - a rare quality in Berkeley politics, then and now.
In 1986 she broke the glass ceiling by being elected Berkeley's first female mayor. She balanced six straight city budgets, convinced Bayer Labs to fund the Bio-Tech Academy at Berkeley High, and negotiated a historic agreement with UC Berkeley in which the university agreed for the first time to pay for some of the city services it receives.
That same year she married state Senator Tom Bates. Today, thanks to term limits, they've switched jobs: She holds his old senate seat, and he's Berkeley's mayor.
But they still can't agree which date to celebrate their anniversary.
"We were married on the Sunday after I was elected, which was Nov. 9," she says. "He thinks we should celebrate on Nov. 9, but I think it should be the first Sunday after the first Tuesday in November."
Solution: In odd years they celebrate on his date, and in even years they celebrate on hers.
Hancock served in both the Carter and Clinton administrations as Carter's regional director for ACTION and Clinton's Western Regional Office director of the U.S. Department of Education.
She was elected to the state Assembly in 2002. Six years later she moved up to the Senate, where she has championed educational reform, clearing up the Zenaca toxic waste site in Richmond and fighting the expansion of gambling casinos.
And she's done it without compromising her values.
"She was under brutal pressure during the last campaign, when the other side went really negative," says Brooks. "People told her she couldn't win if she didn't go on the attack, but she wouldn't do it. She didn't think it was the right thing to do. And she won anyway."
I know it's going to gall her to be compared to Ronald Reagan, but she's a perfect example of The Gipper's dictum that there's nothing you can't accomplish if you don't care who gets the credit.

Never Again

2011-04-23T12:41:00.000-07:00

Two inexpressibly sad anniversaries are coming up next week.
On May 1 Berkeley will join cities all over the world in observing Holocaust Remembrance Day, mourning the six million Jews who were murdered by the Nazis.
This year, the ceremony has been moved from the City Council Chamber to the New Freight & Salvage in downtown Berkeley. It will start at 10:30 a.m., and the public is cordially invited.
The guest of honor will be Murray Gordon, a survivor of the Dachau concentration camp, who fought with the Lithuanian resistance against the German forces who invaded his country.
He was only 15 the day they marched into his hometown. The first thing they did was round up everyone who was too old, too young or too sick to work, including his grandmother and grandfather, and shoot them.
1.5 million children perished during the Holocaust, including 1.2 million Jewish children, tens of thousands of Gypsy children and thousands of handicapped children.
But Gordon escaped through a hole in the barbed wire fence and made his way to the Lithuanian forest, where he joined a group of freedom fighters.
He was wounded five different times and finally captured by the Germans, who sent him to Dachau. On April 29, 1945, the camp was liberated by the 442nd Regimental Combat Team, the Japanese American unit that was awarded more medals than any other unit in American history.
"For a long time, I couldn't talk about the liberation without tears," he says.
But the Holocaust wasn't history's first genocide. And, as more recent mass murders in Cambodia, Rwanda, Bosnia, Darfur and other countries have sadly proved, it wasn't the last, either.
On April 24 Armenians will mourn the genocide of their people during World War I, when Turkish troops forced more than a million Armenian civilians on a death march in the Syrian desert with no food or water. Anyone who lagged behind was shot.
Unlike the Holocaust, which happened so recently that many survivors are still here to bear witness, the Armenian genocide happened so long ago that no eyewitnesses are left.
So the stories have been handed down in each family from generation to generation. I talked with some Cal students of Armenian descent a few months ago, and they still feel the pain as if it had happened yesterday.
"To this day, any time my grandmother tells her father's story, she cries," said Nairi Hartooni.
Like the Holocaust, the Armenian genocide has its deniers, who claim it never happened; or if it did, the numbers are exaggerated; or even if the numbers are correct, it was just collateral damage.
But more objective observers, including contemporary reports in the New York Times, put the deaths at somewhere between 500,000 and 1.5 million. And, as usual, a disproportionate number were women and children.
Neither Jews nor Armenians are asking for vengeance. We can't even expect justice because there's no punishment severe enough to fit the crime.
But there is one thing we must do: Never forget.
On August 22, 1939, Adolf Hitler met with his top henchmen to plan the Final Solution. Somebody pointed out that murdering millions of Jews might be bad public relations, but Hitler laughed him off.
"After all," he said, "who speaks today of the annihilation of the Armenians?"

Backyard Beauties

2011-04-11T14:26:00.000-07:00

(Bruce, Lusk and Cookiepuss, three of the cats waiting for a backyard to live in.)

Three months ago, Merry Bates, president of Island Cat Resources and Adoption (ICRA, for short), got a frantic phone call from an elderly couple in West Oakland.
A few years before, they discovered a semi-feral cat living in their basement, and they started feeding it. And, because it wasn't spayed, it didn't take long for that one cat to become 10.
But last January they got bad news: Their home was about to be foreclosed.
Unfortunately, their basement was the only home these cats have ever known. They are completely dependent on this couple, having been born in the basement with a daily food and water source there since their births.
When these big-hearted people find a new home, they clearly won't be able to take the cats with them.
So ICRA volunteers swung into action. First, they humanely trapped and neutered the cats. Then they started searching for backyards where the kitties could make their new homes.
To date, they've found garden locations for four cats. But the other six are still waiting, and time is running out for them. The couple must be out by the end of the month, and so do the cats.
There are three males and three females, about a year old, in a range of colors. All have been fixed, vaccinated and FeLV/FIV tested. And all are as cute as can be.
Do you have room in your backyard for one or more of these hapless creatures? ICRA won't simply dump them on you; they'll hold your hand all the way, including lending you an outdoor kitty condo for the cats to live in until they decide that your yard is their new home. All you have to supply is food, water, shelter from the rain and love.
Although these cats are called feral, they are not wild or aggressive - just shy. They need safe outdoor spaces in which to live out their natural lives. Some of these cats, in time, will allow petting from a trusted caregiver. Others will keep a safe distance but enjoy playing or sleeping in the garden while you are nearby. Most are curious about people and will interact with you at feeding time.
It's a win-win deal: The cats get a second chance at life, and you get the pleasure of watching them and the satisfaction of giving them a desperately needed home.
If you can help, please visit the ICRA website at www.icraeastbay.org or call 510-869-2584.
And don't forget ICRA's annual auction on May 7 at the Alameda Elks Lodge. It's ICRA's big fundraiser for the year, and 100 percent of the money goes to the kitties. If you can't make it to the auction, you can also donate through the website.
Remember what Gandhi said: "The greatness of a nation can be judged by the way it treats its animals."

Looking Backward

2011-04-03T11:37:00.001-07:00

(Above: Mrs. Lacey's first grade class, El Rodeo School, 1951. I'm in the back row, second kid from the left. Standing between me and Mrs. Lacey is David Ansen, who grew up to become Newsweek's movie critic. Click on the picture to enlarge it.)

Since Donald Trump is demanding to see President Obama's birth certificate, I decided to dig up mine to see if it proves that I was born in this country, too.
Alas, it doesn't reveal much more than Obama's. All it says is that I was born on April 5, 1945 - shortly before the end of World War II - at Holy Cross Hospital in Salt Lake City, Utah. Make of that what you will, Donald.
My arrival was a blessed event for my family in more ways than one, since it meant they were entitled to another precious book of ration coupons. Four days after I was born, the Office of Price Administration duly issued me War Ration Book No. 356021, which I still have.
Since I was too young to fill in the blanks, my father did it for me. In the box marked "Occupation" he wrote, "Baby."
A lot has changed since I was a kid - some for better, some for worse.
Back then, labor unions had real clout, taxes on the rich were high, and the economy was booming. People were so used to prosperity, any unemployment rate higher than four percent was considered the kiss of death for an incumbent politician.
California had the best public schools in the country, and every high school grad was guaranteed a free education at either one of the UC campuses, the state colleges or the junior colleges, depending on your grades. After college, you could count on a job with the same company for your whole life.
The most popular spectator sports were baseball, boxing and horse racing. The NFL lagged far behind, and its best teams were the Lions and Browns. The worst were the Packers and Steelers.
The Giants were still in New York, and the A's and Warriors were still in Philadelphia. In college football, Miami of Ohio, not Florida, was the big powerhouse.
Though a few African Americans had been playing in the NBA since 1951, most coaches and sportswriters were sure they couldn't play basketball as well as whites. There were no black pitchers, no black quarterbacks, and no black coaches or managers.
And we had some pretty weird ideas about what the future would be like. For instance, we all believed that the Cold War would either drag on forever or end in a nuclear holocaust. Similarly, apartheid in South Africa would either never end or would end in a bloodbath.
We were taught that we would never find out what killed the dinosaurs, or whether the universe started with a Big Bang or has been the same forever.
And, of course, a Catholic would never be elected President, much less an African American.
And something I was sure would be imprinted on people's memories forever is already being forgotten. Last week I was talking with a friend in her late thirties, and I mentioned a date that I was sure anyone would recognize: Nov. 22, 1963.
But all I saw was a blank stare. Sure, she had heard of JFK's assassination, but the date didn't ring a bell.
I was taken aback, but I console myself with the thought that 30 years from now, some young person is going to ask her what Sept. 11, 2001 means.

Nice Kitty

2011-03-27T16:55:00.001-07:00

When Magic the cat, the resident mouser at Children's Fairyland in Oakland, died eight years ago, the local mice - whom Magic had kept at bay for years - immediately went to work raiding Fairyland's stores of food for the critters in its Animal Corral.
Clearly, a new feline enforcer was needed. So Yvonne Backman, Fairyland's animal caretaker, went to the Oakland animal shelter to interview job applicants.
Her gaze alighted on a sweet little black-and-white female with the romantic name of No. 1773342. She was friendly, she was curious and - best of all - the card on her cage said she hadn't been declawed.
This was important because a major part of the job description is hunting mice, and she needed her claws for that.
That sealed the deal. Backman took little No. 1773342 back to Fairyland and renamed her Jewel.
From Day One, Jewel appointed herself queen of the park. She spent her days roaming at will, graciously accepting petting and praise from everyone she ran into.
"And on Mondays, when the park was closed, we'd find her out in front by the Shoe, waiting for passers-by to pet her and adore her," says Fairyland's horticulturalist, Robin North.
Jewel was the center of attention at every staff meeting. She'd walk around the table and get petted by each person in turn. Then she'd settle down in the middle of the table, curl up, and monitor the proceedings.
"And she was amazing with kids," says development director Ann Singer. "They'd pick her up and let her dangle precariously, but she never hissed or bit anyone. She knew they were just kids."
The other animals adored her, especially the Three Amigos - Juan the alpaca, Twinkle the sheep and Dori the pony - and the Bad Boys - Gideon and Tumbleweed Tommy, the miniature donkeys - whom she visited regularly on her daily rounds.
Curiously, two weeks after she was adopted, executive director C.J, Hirschfield was playing with Jewel in her lap and suddenly said, "This cat has been declawed!"
Backman couldn't believe it. After all, the card on Jewel's cage said she hadn't been declawed. But sure enough, no claws.
By then, of course, everyone had fallen in love with her, so there was no question of taking her back. But here's the funny part: The lack of claws never hampered her mousing ability. Backman kept a running total of her kills on a tally board in the office to prove to disbelievers that Jewel was doing her job.
Alas, it ended all too soon. Two weeks ago Jewel suddenly developed severe intestinal distress, and after a week of heroic efforts, the reluctant decision was made to have her euthanized.
Everyone at Fairyland is devastated. They miss her terribly.
Unfortunately, they had to run up some serious medical bills in this losing fight. And for a place like Fairyland, which is running on the tightest of budgets in these troubled times, there's no money for unanticipated emergencies like this.
If you, or a child you love, have ever been charmed by this sweet little cat or one of the other animals at Fairyland, now's the time to say thanks by sending a contribution to the Jewel Fund, c/o Children's Fairyland, 699 Bellevue Ave., Oakland CA 94610.
Go to sleep now, Jewel. Good kitty.

Teachers

2011-03-20T12:24:00.001-07:00

The first was Mr. Shaver, my 8th Grade history teacher. He was the toughest teacher in the school, which, paradoxically, meant he was also the most popular. He expected only the best from us, and none of us wanted to disappoint him. So we surprised ourselves by doing better than we ever dreamed we could. Mr. Shaver died last year.
The next was Mrs. Helgesson, my high school English teacher. She managed to convince us that learning in general, and English literature in particular, were jolly good fun. It was a priceless lesson we have carried with us our whole lives. She died last year, too, a few months after Mr. Shaver.
I already told you a few weeks ago about Mr. Occhipinti, the history teacher who challenged us to write what he considered an "intelligent" book review of "Huckleberry Finn." I didn't take him up on it then, but how many times do you think I've written and re-written that report in my mind in the years since?
But my favorite was Mr. Rosemond, a history teacher who had just moved to California from Massachusetts. And I was his favorite student - or, at least, I was his favorite on the west coast. His favorite on the east coast was a kid named Randy Alfred whom he had taught in junior high back in Massachusetts.
As luck would have it, Randy and I ended up at the same college. So on the first day of freshman year, I marched up to him and handed him a letter of introduction from Mr. Rosemond. And we've been friends ever since.
Mr. Rosemond died shortly after Randy and I graduated from college. We still talk about him all the time. And we still miss him.
These are the people who made me who I am. They taught me lots of great stuff, but they did more: They nurtured and encouraged me every step of the way. And I'll bet you have a similar list.
A few years ago I worked part time as a substitute teacher in the West Contra Costa School District. I was gratified to find that there are still lot of Mr. Rosemonds and Mrs. Helgessons out there, trying their hardest to educate and nurture the next generation, despite the low pay and lousy working conditions.
And yet it seems to be open season on teachers these days. They're being blamed for everything that's wrong with our education system, when the truth is that they're the only thing that's right.
Yeah, yeah, I've heard the talk: They only work nine months out of the year, and they get off work at 3:15.
But let me tell you: Teaching is the hardest job I've ever done. There are no breaks, even for a second, because you have to pay constant attention to 30 different people. After nine months of this, you need a vacation just to catch your breath again.
And as far as getting off at 3:15, the workday actually goes on well into the night. Somebody has to grade all those exams, term papers and homework assignments, and make lesson plans for the next day.
Our teachers are the most valuable asset we have because without them, there is no next generation. It's time we started treating them as such.

Human Wave

2011-03-12T12:03:00.000-08:00

If you drive past the corner of Oregon Street and Martin Luther King Way in Berkeley on Tuesday, March 22, between 7:30 and 9:30 a.m., you'll see a bunch of people on the northeast corner waving and wishing you a good day. Some will be wearing orange construction workers' gloves. Several of your fellow drivers will be waving back.
They all - wavers and drivers alike - will be celebrating the 101st birthday of Joseph Charles, the late Berkeley Waving Man, who lived in the house on that corner.
For exactly 30 years - from Oct. 6, 1962 to Oct. 6, 1992 - he stood on his corner, rain or shine, and waved cheerfully to the passing cars. Instantly recognizable in his orange gloves, he would call out, "Keep smiling!" and "Have a GOOD day!"
On that first day, a few neighbors thought he was crazy and called the cops. But when the police arrived, they quickly sized up the situation and said, "Go ahead, Mr. Charles. You just keep on waving for as long as you want."
And people kept saying that to him for the rest of his life. Joseph Charles was to Berkeley what Sundar Shadi was to El Cerrito: He was our collective grandfather.
The Bible tells us to love our neighbors as we love ourselves, and that's exactly what he did. It might seem like a small thing, but he meant it literally when he wished us a good day. He loved us, and we loved him right back.
People would drive miles out of their way, just so they could start their day waving to the Waving Man. He brought a big smile to everyone's face.
Mayor after mayor issued proclamations in his honor no fewer than seven times. He was grand marshal of both the Solano Stroll and the How Berkeley Can You Be? parade.
Mr. Charles - that's what everyone called him - had quite an interesting life even before he started waving. He grew up in Louisiana and played ball in the Negro Leagues as a young man.
He faced Satchel Paige once when the great pitcher came through town on a barnstorming tour. He struck out on three straight pitches, but at least he made contact, which was better than anyone else did that day.
In 1942 he joined the great migration of African Americans from the deep South to the Bay Area, where he helped build Liberty ships at the Kaiser shipyards in Richmond.
After the war he worked as a stevedore at the Oakland Naval Supply Center until his retirement in 1962.
That's when he began his true calling, the one for which he will be remembered long after you and I are long forgotten.
He died in 2002, just a few days short of his 92nd birthday, and the whole city went into mourning. He was truly one of a kind.
If you can, I hope you'll drive by his old corner Tuesday morning and wave to the wavers. I'll be one of them.
And if you can't, feel free to stand on your own corner, wherever you are, and wave to your neighbors. Already, people have pledged to wave in Portland, Oregon; Silver Spring, Maryland; and Germany, as well as all over the Bay Area.
Until then, keep smiling. And have a GOOD day.

The Floating White House

2011-03-07T13:59:00.001-08:00

Seventy-eight years ago, Franklin D. Roosevelt stood before the American people and told us the only thing we have to fear is fear itself - words we would do well to ponder today.
The pressures on FDR were almost unbearable, and he got away from it all by going fishing on his presidential yacht, the USS Potomac.
That's the official version. But I think he really did it to get away from Mrs. Nesbitt.
Henrietta Nesbitt was the White House cook; and her food was worse than inedible, it was disgusting.
"And the worst part was that the menu was always the same, week after week and year after year," says senior lead docent Bill Hodges, one of the hundreds of volunteers who are keeping the Potomac alive, more than 65 years after FDR's death.
"Monday was boiled tongue, Tuesday was boiled chicken and broccoli - and he really hated broccoli - Wednesday was overcooked roast beef, Thursday was sweetbreads - and he hated sweetbreads, too - and so on.
"But aboard the Potomac the Navy stewards would cook the fish he caught on a little hot plate, supplemented by fresh crabs that local fisherman would sell the president as their boats came alongside. Security was a lot less strict in those days."
No matter how many times he begged Eleanor to fire Mrs. Nesbitt, she never did. Historian Doris Kearns Goodwin says it was because Eleanor's idea of a good dinner was great conversation, not good food. Personally, I think it was payback for Lucy Mercer.
Eleanor rarely came aboard the Potomac - she was prone to seasickness - but FDR's Scottish terrier, Fala, was a frequent visitor.
"Fala was not popular with the crew because he refused to use the sandbox," says Hodges. "He'd relieve himself on the ship's mooring lines, instead."
After FDR's death in 1945 the Potomac was decommissioned and went through a succession of owners. The last one decided to junk her and turn her into scrap.
But at the last moment a rescuer stepped up - none other than Elvis Presley!
He bought the Potomac and donated her to St. Jude's Hospital. The ship's later adventures included being turned into a floating disco and being seized by the DEA for drug running.
She was finally bought at auction in 1981 by the Port of Oakland for only $15,000. Under the leadership of FDR's eldest son, James, the ship was restored as close as possible to the way she was in the days when FDR fished off the fantail.
Today, she's a floating museum docked at Jack London Square. Thousands of schoolchildren have visited her.
Alas, nobody foresaw this recession, and two years ago the Port of Oakland was forced to cancel its financial support. But the ship's operating expenses go on.
One day, the economy is going to bounce back. The only question is whether the Potomac can stay afloat until then. It would be a shame if she can't.
If you want to help, one way is to visit the ship. Go to www.usspotomac.org for a schedule of dockside tours, historical Bay cruises and special events.
Even better, you can become a member of the Friends of the Potomac. Go to the website or call 510-627-1215 for details.
Don't give up the ship.

A Man For All Seasons

2011-02-28T10:29:00.000-08:00

On March 10, the Berkeley Symphony will play its final concert of the season at Cal Performances' Zellerbach Hall, featuring works by Stravinsky, Shostakovich and James MacMillan.
For me, the high point will be the world premiere of a solo piano piece called "Vendeval," composed and performed by Latin Grammy winner Gabriela Lena Frank, the Symphony's creative advisor.
The composition is in memory of the late Harry Weininger, who died last Memorial Day. It was commissioned by former KPIX anchor Linda Schacht, who bought the right to do so at last year's Symphony fundraising auction.
She first met him when they served together on the Symphony board.
"But my real appreciation of his role in our community grew through our common relationship to the public library," says Schacht, a board member of the Berkeley Public Library Foundation.
"For several years, Harry worked in a program at the North Branch called 'Lawyers in the Community.' He'd gone to law school at age 54 and, in typical Harry fashion, wanted to use his new skills in a generous way - by counseling anyone who came to the library needing legal advice."
More often than not, they'd arrive feeling angry and frustrated.
"Harry had a way of calming them with courtesy and respect," says librarian Debbie Carton. "He would listen with complete attention and empathy - but not sympathy, because that would have been condescending."
But I haven't even begun to hint at all the good things Harry Weininger did in his 76 years.
A partial list of worthy causes that benefited from his support includes the Berkeley Symphony, Berkeley Public Library Foundation, Berkeley Chamber of Commerce (which he served as president), Planned Parenthood Shasta-Diablo (board of trustees), Berkeley Rotary Club, Berkeley Civic Arts Commission, Berkeley Rep, and the Jewish Community Center and Jewish Family and Children's Services of the East Bay.
He even ran for city council once, with campaign posters designed by longtime friend David Lance Goines. He lost.
But his greatest role was that of peacemaker. For as long as I've lived in Berkeley - more than 40 years - the town has been bitterly divided between the Berkeley Democratic Club, aka "the liberals," and the even more liberal Berkeley Citizens' Action, aka "the progressives."
(In case you're curious: Yes, there are still Republicans in Berkeley, and I know both of them.)
It's hard to overstate the enmity these two groups used to feel for each other. As Harry once said, "While it was possible for Soviet and American officials to have dinner together during the Cold War, I'm not aware that the BDC president and the BCA chair have ever had lunch."
That began to change when he became BDC president in 1983, a role he held off and on (mostly on) until 1996. He was a man who was incapable of having enemies, and he numbered people on both sides of the political divide as his friends.
"He was able to talk to everybody, regardless of their political attitude," says Councilwoman Susan Wengraf. "And that made him an invaluable bridge builder."
He did it with humor, wisdom and, most importantly, by serving as a role model for how a civilized person treats those he disagrees with.
He may be gone, but we still have his example to live up to.

Man of the Millenium

2011-02-22T09:58:00.000-08:00

This is a column I wrote in 2000. I'm reposting it in honor of Washington's birthday:

Making up "Top 10" lists or "Most Important" lists is fatuous beyond belief, but I'm no better than the next guy. As this millennium draws to a close, I've been thinking about who was the greatest person of the last 1,000 years.
And what an incredible cast of characters to choose from! Joan of Arc, William Shakespeare, Mahatma Gandhi, St. Francis of Assisi, Isaac Newton, Susan B. Anthony, Abraham Lincoln, Leonardo DaVinci, Martin Luther King and Wolfgang Amadeus Mozart, to name just a few.
But for me, the choice is easy. There's one person whom I honor and revere him above all other humans, and I'd give anything if I could be like him: motivated solely by unselfish feelings of love, duty and honor. His name: George Washington.
You might find this a curious choice, because Washington has become a remote figure, somehow more distant from us than even his contemporaries like Franklin and Jefferson. For most people, he's just the guy with the pursed lips, who stares at us from the dollar bill.
But it wasn't so long ago that Washington was a very, very big deal, indeed. The mere mention of his name would bring tears to grown men's eyes (as it still does to mine). And generations of little kids grew up idolizing him, the way today's kids idolize Michael Jordan.
Jefferson and Franklin and the other Founding Fathers idolized him, too. These giants, who were anything but modest about their own abilities, looked up to Washington as the greatest of them all.
Jefferson, who opposed many of Washington's policies, still called him "in every sense of the words, a good, wise and great man." Franklin called him "my friend, and the friend of Mankind." And Light Horse Harry Lee, the father of Robert E. Lee, called him "first in war, first in peace, first in the hearts of his countrymen."
They chose him to lead the army. They chose him to preside over the Constitutional convention. They chose him to be the first president. They called him "Father of the Country," even in his own lifetime. They even named our nation's capital after him.
Why? Well, there were plenty of reasons to look up to him. (Literally. At 6-foot-2, he towered over all of them except Jefferson.)
First was his undeniable natural leadership. Some people have it and some people don't, and Washington had it in spades. How do else you think he kept that bedraggled little army of his together and defeated the greatest superpower in the world?
It was also a question of character. To state it baldly, they knew he was a better person than they were. That story about the cherry tree may be bogus, but its underlying message about Washington's honesty was true enough.
Jefferson and Hamilton were habitual womanizers. (Jefferson even slept with his slaves, which is closer to rape than consensual sex.) Franklin was a vindictive father who went out of his way to make sure that his son, William, who stayed loyal to Britain, rotted in jail for the duration of the war.
Washington, on the other hand, was a loving, faithful husband to Martha and a doting father to her two children, Jackie and Patsy, and (after Jackie and Patsy's untimely deaths) to Martha's grandchildren, Nelly and Washy, whom he brought up as his own.
And while Jefferson and the others were having fun playing armchair general while living in comfort and safety back in Philadelphia, Washington was freezing and bleeding with the troops on the out in the field.
After the war, while others schemed and doublecrossed and generally acted like the politicians they were, he was guided by only two principles: the public good and his private honor.
He was even kind to animals. Cruelty of any sort disgusted him, and he adored his two favorite dogs, whom he named "Truelove" and "Sweetlips." (Try imagining that guy on the dollar bill down on his hands and knees, letting some dog slobber all over his face while he coos, "Is this my little Sweetlips?")
And on the most important moral issue of the day — slavery — Washington still looks good. Yes, he had slaves. (Although he didn't buy them; they came with Martha in her dowry.) Moreover, he — alone among his contemporaries — freed his slaves in his will. He also set up trust funds for them, so they wouldn't be left high and dry after he was gone.
Nowadays, you hear a lot of historians trying to justify some of the Founding Fathers' slaveholding by saying they didn't know any better. But it's not true. The hypocrisy was apparent, even at the time. In London, Samuel Johnson, on being told about the Declaration of Independence, quipped, "Isn't it odd that the loudest yelps for freedom come from the drivers of Negroes?"
Washington knew better, too. And, typically, he put his convictions into practice.
• • •
But the main reason why Franklin, Jefferson and the rest respected him was because were pleasantly flabbergasted when he didn't turn out to be a tyrant. (And they weren't the only ones. Even his old nemesis, George III, when told that Washington had voluntarily given up command of the army, gasped in disbelief, "Why, he must be the greatest man in the world!")
These men, on both sides on the Atlantic, knew from their reading of history how easy it is for someone to start out as a liberator but end up as a despot.
Think of it: Every other conqueror in history — Alexander, Caesar, Cromwell, Napoleon, Mao — started out with good intentions but eventually succumbed to the Dark Side of the Force. (Or, if you're a Tolkien fan, they were seduced by the Ring of Power.)
But not Washington. He alone refused.
The crisis came right after the war. The soldiers had been fighting and dying without pay for six long years, trusting Congress' promise that they'd get their money when it was all over. But in February, 1983, the Congress reneged on that promise.
The same thing had happened about a hundred years before, during the English Civil War. That time, the army responded by marching on London and throwing out the parliament. And England was under the heel of a military dictatorship for the next 20 years.
There were a lot of senior officers in the American army who wanted to do the same thing. They hatched a plan to march on the capital at Philadelphia, arrest the Congress, and install Washington as a military dictator, if he was willing. If he wasn't willing, they were prepared to seize the government anyway — over his dead body, if necessary. And they called a secret meeting to put the final touches of the plot.
But Washington got wind of the meeting, and he surprised them all by crashing it. He walked up to the podium and politely asked for permission to address the meeting, knowing that they couldn't deny their old commander-in-chief this small favor.
He started reading them a letter he'd just received, but he didn't get past more than a word or two before he suddenly stopped. He reached into his pocket and pulled out something they'd never ever seen wear before: a pair of eyeglasses.
"Gentlemen," he said, "please permit me to put on my spectacles, for I have not only grown gray in the service of my country, but also blind."
Then, without another word, he slowly walked out the door. Those hardened war veterans dissolved in tears. The coup d'etat was over before it began. And the United States did not become a banana republic.
• • •
Washington continued giving up power, over and over again, for the rest of his life. After being unanimously elected twice to the presidency (the only man to do so), he turned down a third term that could easily have been his, preferring to set a precedent by arranging a peaceful transition to his successor. Despite all the power that kept gravitating toward him, there was never a man who lusted after power less.
I never understood that until I visited his home, Mount Vernon, which is something I urge you to do, too.
When I was studying American history in school, I'd read about people coming up to him and saying, "George, please head the army" or "George, please run the Constitutional convention" or "George, please be our first president."
And he'd always reply something along the lines of "Gee, fellas, I really hate to leave Mount Vernon, But if you insist, well, OK." And I'd cynically say to myself, "Who does this guy think he's kidding?"
But the instant I laid eyes on Mount Vernon, I knew he wasn't kidding at all. Mount Vernon is the most gorgeous place on Earth. Every time I visit (and I visit as often as I can), I'm filled with a glorious combination of exhilaration and serenity. If I lived there, wild horses couldn't to drag me away.
And the beauty is that it reflects Washington's personality so perfectly, right down to the key to the Bastille that hangs in the hallway — a gift from the Marquis de Lafayette.
Mount Vernon is refined, but it's not fancy. Unlike Monticello, which looks like the aristocrat's house that it is, Mount Vernon is a simple farmer's house, albeit a very elegant one.
But as much as he loved Mount Vernon, Washington loved his country more. During the war, a British frigate sailed up the Potomac, threatening every home along the river with its big guns. At Monticello, Jefferson, who was governor of Virginia at the time, hastily sent the ship's captain a sizable bribe to spare Monticello.
Washington was up North at the time, but his caretaker sent a couple of barrels of whiskey to the ship's captain to induce him to spare Mount Vernon, too. When Washington heard about it, he was furious. "Better it should have been burned to the ground," he wrote, "than that any tribute should be paid to the tyrant!"
Washington died on Dec. 14, 1799, exactly 200 years ago this coming Tuesday. He'd caught a bad cold the day before, and he woke up in the middle of the night with difficulty breathing. Typically, he wouldn't let Martha get up and fetch the doctor, because he didn't want her to risk a chill getting out of bed.
The next day the doctor arrived and made matters worse. In those days, the main remedies were bleeding and enemas, both of which only served to further weaken the patient. He was slowly suffocating to death, and the doctors informed him that the end of near.
"'Tis well," said Washington. "I die hard, but I am not afraid to go." In a few minutes he was gone.
After his death, Mount Vernon gradually deteriorated over the next 70 or 80 years until it was reduced to a truly dilapidated state. But it was saved from ruin in the nick of time by women — namely, the Mount Vernon Ladies Association, which was founded shortly before the Civil War by a patriot named Anne Pamela Cunningham.
They bought Mount Vernon from Washington's heirs and set about restoring it. Today, it looks just the way it was when Washington lived there, including his granddaughter Nelly's harpsichord, which is in the same spot in the parlor where it was when she played for her doting "Grandpapa" every night after dinner. It's all subsidized by contributions from the public; not a penny of taxes goes into its upkeep.
Next week, Mount Vernon will observe the anniversary of the great man's death by recreating all the important events, including a full restaging of his funeral procession, complete with rituals of Washington's Masonic lodge. It may sound macabre, but how I wish I could be there!
• • •
We have much to be grateful to Washington for. But perhaps the most important is the example he set for the rest of us to live up to.
And we can do it, too. Washington was a human being, no different from you and me. He was no superhero or saint. What he did, we can do. All it takes is the will power.
Don't believe me? Here's exhibit A: another man, still living, who in all the important details could be Washington reincarnate.
He has the same dignified manner — the same, for want of a better word, leadership quality — as Washington.
He has the same dedication to freedom, the same lack of rancor toward former enemies, and the same ability to get his countrymen to forgo their petty concerns and focus on the greater good.
Like Washington, he is being called "Father of His Country" in his own lifetime. And like Washington, he is beloved not just in his own country, but all over the world.
Can you guess whom I'm talking about? Nelson Mandela, of course. Enjoy him while we're still lucky enough to have him among us.
And let's try to be like him, too.

Reading For Fun

2011-02-20T16:13:00.000-08:00

Once again, as they have every year for the past 13 years, students from Glenview Elementary School in Oakland are knocking on doors in the neighborhood, asking people to sponsor them in the annual Glenview Read-a-thon.
The kids pledge to read for at least 30 minutes every night, and the sponsors pledge to support them by donating to the Glenview PTA.
This year, the kids are trying to raise $30,000 to fill the gaps in the school's budget created by the latest round of cuts from Sacramento.
At risk are the school's enrichment programs - chorus, art, drama and physical education - as well as the school aides who help out in classrooms and at recess and lunchtime.
For the children's protection, there are two hard-and-fast rules: They must be accompanied by an adult they know personally, and they can knock only on doors of people they know personally.
As a reward for their efforts, the kids will be treated to a unique all-day party next Wednesday, March 2, which - by no coincidence at all - is Dr. Seuss's birthday. (He would have been 107.)
For that one day, they will be allowed to put aside their schoolwork and do nothing but read, read, read all day for sheer pleasure.
Smart, huh? By making reading a reward, the kids learn a lesson they will carry with them for the rest of their lives: Reading is fun!
And the kids take to it with a passion. Some of the younger ones come to school in their PJs, dragging their sleeping bags and teddy bears behind them.
Using chairs and blankets, they make forts in the middle of the classroom, climb in with their favorite books, and read to their heart's content. It's beyond cute.
Once again, teacher John Miller is offering his 2nd graders an added incentive: If they can raise $2,500 in pledges, he'll let them watch while his hair gets cut off.
There's never a cleanup problem afterward. The kids prize the shorn locks as souvenirs, and they scoop the hair up as soon as it hits the ground.
And once again, grownup celebrities - including KPIX anchor Wendy Tokuda, Oakland City Council President Ignacio de la Fuente, and local police and firefighters - will be on hand to read to the kids.
If you'd like to contribute to this very worthy cause, send a tax-deductible check to Glenview Elementary PTA, 4215 La Cresta Ave., Oakland CA 94602.
P.S. I'll be at the Read-a-thon, too, reading from one of my Freddy the Pig books, which I consider to be on a par with "Charlotte's Web" and "Stuart Little." And there's no higher recommendation than that.
Overlook Press has just issued paperback versions of three of my favorite Freddy books - "Freddy the Detective," "Freddy the Politician" and "Freddy and the Bean Home News," with the other 23 in this classic children's series soon to follow.
The Freddy books were written between 1927 and 1958 by Walter R. Brooks, whose other claim to fame is that he's the guy who invented Mr. Ed, the talking horse. If you know any kids in the 3rd, 4th or 5th grade, you couldn't ask for a better present to give them.

Sisters

2011-02-14T16:11:00.000-08:00

September 1942 was an exciting time for Carol Hogerheide and Barbara Stuhr. They were starting first grade at Thousand Oaks Elementary School in Berkeley, and it didn't take long for them to become fast friends. (Mary Barnes joined them two years later.)
At the same time, Pam Maloy, Marilee Goodwin, Margie Snyder, Nancy Seavey and Eleanor Price were forming similar friendships at Oxford Elementary School, as were Gail Evans, Jane Simmons, Cathy Zitzer and Toni Sweet at Hillside Elementary School.
All three schools fed into Garfield Junior High, where the three groups of friends made friends with each other, along with girls from other elementary schools, including Ingrid Lund, Betsy Morphet, Carol Walker, Sheilah MacLeod, Joan McMurray, Jean Kwasnicki, Sara Boke, Zeva Shalmy and Marilyn Porter.
In 1951 they moved on to Berkeley High, where they were joined by Nancy Cupit, Jane Lonergan, Ann Bradshaw and Jane Mills, who had gone to Willard Junior High.
By the time they all graduated from Berkeley High they were as thick as thieves.
In elementary school there was a season for every game: a season for jacks, a season for jump rope, a season for hopscotch, and so on.
In junior high they ice-skated, roller-skated, rode their Flexi Flyers, took in the Saturday matinees at the Oaks Theater (ticket price: 25 cents), held slumber parties, and got into mischief such as sneaking into the Claremont Hotel and sliding down the spiral fire escape in back.
High school was a different story.
"The turning point was when we turned 16 and everyone got their drivers' licenses," said Toni. "That meant we could go up to the hills and smooch with our boyfriends."
There is considerable debate, even to this day, over what was the best parking spot. Some liked Cragmont Rock. Others preferred Inspiration Point. Still others swore by "The Flats" on Grizzly Peak Boulevard.
"It had to happen in cars in those days," said Gail. " And nothing much happened!"
They graduated from Berkeley High in 1954. Then life happened. There were marriages and divorces, births and deaths - including several of their own number. But they never completely lost contact.
"We used to stay in touch by word of mouth, but email has just made everything blossom," said Mary.
In 1996 they held a big reunion to celebrate their collective 60th birthday. And they've been holding reunions at irregular intervals ever since.
Last Saturday they gathered again in Berkeley. They call themselves BHS - short for Berkeley High School, but also "Big Hearted Sisters" - and sisters is exactly what they are.
"We're no longer little girls thinking about boys," said Marilyn. "Been there, done that. Some of us have buried our husbands. The real strength of this groups is the emotional connection, and the love and support we share."
They graciously invited me to join the party, and they treated me like their kid brother. More than one told me I was "adorable."
Then they kicked me out. The final item on the agenda was strictly private. At the end of each reunion they arrange their chairs in a circle and, as Amy March said in Little Women, "We bare our souls and tell the most appalling secrets."
It was fun being Laurie, if only for a day.

Sweet Sounds

2011-02-08T12:14:00.000-08:00

When Audrey Vardanega was a little girl, her mother used to drive her past Children's Hospital in Oakland on the way to her weekly piano lesson. She always looked forward to seeing the huge rubber duck on top of the building.
"I just loved that duck! Sometimes they'd take it down, and I'd get sad and upset and not have that great a lesson that day. But I never knew what went on inside the building."
Audrey is 15 now, and she has blossomed into one of the truly great classical pianists of her generation. And as if that weren't enough, she's also a virtuoso on the violin.
Even a musical illiterate like me can appreciate how good she is because she includes the audience in the sheer joy of making music.
It's a rare quality that only the greatest artists share. Louis Armstrong had it. So does Fredericka Von Stade. And Audrey has it in spades.
She plays with the Mozart Youth Camerata, an ambitious pairing of some of the most talented young musicians in the Bay Area with their adult counterparts in the Midsummer Mozart Festival orchestra, playing side-by-side under the direction of Maestro George Cleve, the festival's founder and artistic director.
A couple of months ago, Audrey and one of her pals from the Camerata, 17-year-old violist Tori Fukumitsu, visited Children's Hospital to find out what was really going on under the duck.
"We reached a set of double doors and were told to wash our hands before entering because this was the cancer wing," she says. "Tori and I saw kids from babies to teenagers who were receiving treatment. The bulletin boards were covered with pictures of children who had not been so fortunate and had lost their lives. We were both in a state of complete shock."
But there was an upside, too: They were blown away by the way the doctors and staff at Children's Hospital bend over backward to save these kids and make their lives more bearable.
"The doctors showed us this room in the wing where kids can go play," says Tori. "It's filled with coloring books and TVs, and everything is totally sterile. There's only one rule: No treatment is allowed in that room because they don't want the kids to associate that room with sickness."
They went back and told their friends what they saw, and the kids responded by offering to help out in the way they know best - making music.
They're going to hold a benefit concert for Children's Hospital on Sunday, Feb. 20, at Calvary Presbyterian Church in San Francisco. Audrey will be one of the two soloists in the Concerto for Two Violins in D minor by Bach, then she'll move over to the piano and play "Almeria" by Iberia.
And there's a lot more, including Mozart's Symphony No. 29, a flute quartet playing Bach's gorgeous "Sheep May Safely Graze," and surprise appearances by some of the adult soloists from the Midsummer Mozart Festival.
If you want to hear some glorious music in a great cause, there's nothing better. And if you can't make it to the concert but would still like to help, please send a tax-deductible check to the Children's Hospital Foundation, 2201 Broadway #600, Oakland CA 94612.
Audrey and Tori will be grateful.

Love Never Dies

2011-02-01T15:12:00.000-08:00

(Above: Bret and his parents)

Whenever a gifted artist dies before his time, the world is always left wondering what might have been.
What wonders might Mozart have created if he hadn't died at 35? Or Gershwin, who died at 39?
The same is true of Bret Harte.
No, not the 19th Century writer. I'm talking about a young man from Moraga who was destined to become, in the words of his college drama professor, "one of the great theatrical directors of his generation."
Though just in his early 20s, Bret already had won raves for his direction of classics like "Inherit The Wind" and "The Man Who Came To Dinner."
It wasn't only what he did that impressed people, it was the way he did it. As they say in baseball, he made everyone around him better.
After college he worked as a stagehand at Berkeley Rep. His fellow stagehand, Ian Richards, remembers, "He studied all the directors very carefully. Not just what they did right, but also what they did wrong."
Such as?
"Some directors coddle the actors but treat the stage crew like dirt. I remember Bret saying, 'I'll never do that!'"
And he never did.
But it all came to a tragic end on March 21, 2006, when Bret was killed by a hit-and-run driver on Highway 680 near Concord. He was only 25.
It was a disaster for the theatrical community. But for his parents, Dennis and Juanita Harte, it was the end of the world.
Bret was their only child. They loved him dearly, and he loved them dearly right back. His death left them in utter despair.
Then Ian came up with an idea: How about creating a fellowship for aspiring young directors at Berkeley Rep in Bret's name?
The Berkeley Rep estimated it would take $100,000 to endow a fellowship. So Dennis and Juanita went to work. For the next five years, it was the only thing that kept them going.
They dug deep into their own pockets, even though they are not wealthy people. There were a lot of vacations not taken and home repairs postponed.
And their friends rallied around them. They held bake sales, plant sales, silent auctions, you name it.
It was an uphill battle, but I'm overjoyed to report that they have finally reached the $100,000 goal.
They celebrated last Monday night with a party at Berkeley Rep for their friends and supporters. There were smiles and hugs, and a few tears, too.
Though it's taken until now to fully fund the fellowship, there have been Bret Harte Fellows at Berkeley Rep ever since he died, thanks to the generosity of Berkeley Rep.
All three Bret Harte Fellows - Marisa Wolf, Nina Morita and the current fellow, Jennifer Wills - showed up at the party to celebrate and thank the Hartes.
All three are bubbling with the same passion for the theater that Bret had. I wish he could have known them, and vice-versa.
But the people I'm happiest for are Dennis and Juanita, who are two of the sweetest, kindest people I've ever met. Creating this fellowship was the final thing they could do for their beloved son.
"We just don't want him to be forgotten," Juanita told me Monday night. "That's our biggest nightmare."
Ain't going to happen, Juanita.

Eyewitness To History

2011-01-24T14:29:00.000-08:00

How'd you like to read a book that's chock full of juicy behind-the-scenes stories about the most important historical events in the Bay Area in the last 50 years?
Or would you prefer an inspiring, deeply personal Horatio Alger story about how a girl from the projects of West Oakland overcame all the obstacles to become the first female black anchor in the Bay Area?
Actually, they're the same book: "Never In My Wildest Dreams - A Black Woman's Life In Journalism" by Belva Davis and co-author Vicki Haddock.
Davis is a Bay Area legend who has anchored at KPIX, KRON and, currently, KQED, where's she's the host of "This Week In Northern California."
Name an important event, and Davis had a ringside seat.
She was there when the conservatives took over the Republican Party at the 1964 GOP convention at the Cow Palace, narrowly escaping serious injury from some Goldwater fans who were outraged that a black reporter was covering the event.
She was there when San Francisco Board of Supervisors President Dianne Feinstein announced in a choked voice that Mayor George Moscone and Supervisor Harvey Milk had just been murdered, and that the suspect was Supervisor Dan White.
She met - and formed opinions about - every famous person who came through the Bay Area. She says Frank Sinatra was a real sweetheart. Lenny Bruce? Not so much.
She liked Huey Newton. (Did you know he was named after Huey Long? I didn't.)
But she couldn't stand Eldridge Cleaver, who, she says, made his wife Kathleen taste his food before he'd eat it because he was afraid of being poisoned. How gallant!
Sometimes, her work impinged on her personal life, such as the time a white supremacist group threatened to kidnap her daughter as retaliation for Patty Hearst's kidnapping by the Symbionese Liberation Army.
"They thought I was Angela Davis' sister," she says.
I was sorely tempted to rip off her best stories and fill this column with them. But then you wouldn't have to read the book, and we can't have that, can we?
So I'll confine myself to telling you to read the James Brown story on page 71, the Martin Luther King story on page 83, and an absolutely hilarious story about Malcolm X on page 56.
And if you've ever wondered what really goes on behind the scenes at beauty pageants, don't miss Chapter 8, about her stint as producer of the Northern California Miss Bronze America pageant.
But even more than the great anecdotes, what will stick with me for a long time is the other story: How she overcame every obstacle - including race, gender and abuse - to become perhaps the most respected voice in Bay Area TV news.
The obstacles kept cropping up every step of the way, such as the station executive who turned her down for a job, explaining, "We aren't hiring negresses."
But she also found kindness in unexpected quarters, such as another executive, to whom she confessed a feeling of inadequacy because she hadn't gone to college.
She kept kicking herself afterward, certain that she had just torpedoed her career. But instead, his response was to give her a handwritten list of important people who never went to college, either.
It's a fascinating story, beautifully told. Check it out.

Never Again

2011-01-17T14:07:00.000-08:00

On Feb. 19, 1942, President Roosevelt signed Executive Order 9066, authorizing the military to arrest Americans of Japanese descent and force them into prison camps.
Practically overnight, 120,000 people on the West Coast - men, women, old people and little children - were ripped from their homes and sent to hellholes in the middle of nowhere.
They froze during the winter and broiled during the summer. And always there were men on gun towers with their machine guns pointed inward, ready to shoot anyone who tried to escape.
The government justified this on military necessity, claiming that these Americans couldn't be trusted not to help the enemy.
Of course, this was completely bogus. And the best proof is that the roundups were mostly confined to Japanese Americans on the mainland. Almost none of those living in Hawaii were interned, and for a simple reason: There were just too many them. They comprised a whopping 1/3 of Hawaii's population.
So with all those people running around scott-free in Hawaii, how many of them committed espionage or sabotage during the war? A big fat zero.
To the contrary, more than 15,000 Japanese Americans volunteered to fight for Uncle Sam. They formed the 442end Regimental Combat Team, which went on to earn more medals than any other unit in American history. But their families continued to languish in the camps.
But one man stood up against the internments. His name was Fred Korematsu, and he used a particularly American weapon: He took the government to court.
The case went all the way to the Supreme Court, which upheld his conviction for resisting internment. But 40 years later a UC San Diego professor uncovered a secret memo written in 1941 by none other than J. Edgar Hoover, who said there never was any danger from Japanese Americans.
Based on this revelation, Korematsu's conviction was overturned in 1983. During the trial the government offered him a pardon if he'd drop the case, but he turned them down.
"He always felt it was the government who should seek a pardon from him," his wife, Katherine, explained.
And history has vindicated him. In 1988 President Reagan signed a law that officially apologized for the detentions and gave each living survivor $20,000 in token reparations. In 1988 President Clinton awarded Korematsu a Presidential Medal of Freedom.
Fred Korematsu died in 2005, but not before he had the pleasure of seeing several schools throughout the state named after him.
Last fall, Gov. Schwarzenegger signed a law officially recognizing Korematsu's birthday, Jan. 30, as Fred Korematsu Day of Civil Liberties and the Constitution. It's the first day in history named after an Asian American.
The inaugural Fred Korematsu Day celebration will take place Jan. 30 at UC Berkeley's Wheeler Auditorium. Rev. Jesse Jackson will be the keynote speaker. Tickets can be purchased at tickets.berkeley.edu/
This isn't ancient history. Though Korematsu's criminal conviction was overturned, the 1944 Supreme Court decision is still on the books, ready to be dusted off and used against some other minority group someday.
And there are plenty of people out there - including some in positions of power - who would love to do the same thing to Muslims or Mexican Americans.
Philosopher George Santayana was right: Those who ignore history are condemned to repeat it.

Checkmate!

2011-01-10T17:32:00.000-08:00

(Above: Josiah doing his thing)

Things looked bleak for Josiah Stearman of Martinez as he competed in the Grade-Level State Chess Championship at the University of the Pacific in Stockton on Dec. 4 and 5. After only three moves, he was already two pawns down.
But Josiah's opponent didn't realize that he was using a cleverly disguised version of the Danish Gambit. He was trading pieces for position.
On move number five Josiah pounced, taking a pawn. Then he took a bishop, and on the move after that he put his opponent's king in check.
Ten moves later it was all over. Josiah had won in a rout.
Now get this: Josiah is only seven years old. He went on to defeat four more opponents, winning the 2nd Grade State Championship.
Josiah was competing for the Berkeley Chess School, and he wasn't the only BCS student walk away with first prize. Ben Rood of Walnut Creek won at the 1st grade level, Joel Alcaraz of Vallejo won the 6th grade, Tudor Muntean of Danville won the 8th grade, Gabriel Lee of San Ramon won the 10th grade, and Rusian Bulguchov of Alamo won the 12th grade.
Besides the first place winners, many BCS students placed in the statewide top 10 for their grade.
The Berkeley Chess School serves students at 150 schools throughout the Bay Area. Of the 41 schools whose teams were made up of BCS students, eight teams placed in the top 10 at the state championship.
Ho hum. Just another day for the Berkeley Chess School, which has routinely dominated the state competition every year since it was founded 29 years ago.
So what's their secret?
"They make it fun," says Josiah's mother, Sarah Stearman. "So many kids are weighted down with so much pressure, but not at the Berkeley Chess School."
David Kornguth of Orinda, whose daughter, Lindsay, competes at the 4th grade level, agrees.
"Chess is can be incredibly intense, and some parents are very overbearing with their kids. The one thing that's completely different with the Berkeley Chess School is that they make it rewarding, not punitive, so the kids maintain their interest for years and years."
Chess traditionally has been a male-dominated game. Even at the Berkeley Chess School, the boy/girl ratio is 80/20. But girls like Lindsay are changing that.
"Boys are confident that they can beat girls, and she uses that to her advantage to psych herself up," says her dad. "She loves to beat boys who are highly rated."
Lindsay, whose sweet demeanor masks a killer instinct, hones her skills by purposely playing more experienced opponents.
"I hate games that are too easy," she explains. "It's no fun to do the same thing over and over again."
The Berkeley Chess School was founded in 1982 by Elizabeth Shaughnessy, a former Irish Women's Chess Champion and former Berkeley school board president, who started by volunteering to teach chess to children in her son Stephen's elementary school.
"There was a great deal of interest, as you can imagine in a university town like Berkeley," she says. "Seventy-two children showed up for the first class."
Today, the Berkeley Chess School teaches more than 5,000 students in after-school sessions at their own schools, including three Title One schools in Oakland and Richmond.
It also offers daytime classes for home schoolers and Friday evening classes at the former Hillside School in Berkeley and the Contra Costa Jewish Community Center in Walnut Creek.
A 2006 study at J.O. Ford, a Title One school in Richmond, showed that students whose classes included chess instruction did 20 percent better than their peers in math and 15 percent better in English.
The school also offers camp sessions every summer, both full day and half day, Monday through Friday in Berkeley, Walnut Creek, Fremont and San Carlos.
Classes are held at four levels: Novice, Intermediate, Intermediate/Advanced, and Advanced. The program includes daily instruction and play, first time membership in the US Chess Federation, prizes and a T-Shirt that reads, "Just Say Chess."
The teachers come from all walks of life. Over the years they have included Cal professors, a UPS driver, a church custodian and a bagel maker.
The school has a lengthy etiquette list of dos and don'ts, including no trash talking, no intimidating, and players must shake hands before each game.
"We tell them that Berkeley Chess School students first and foremost are good sports, and chess is between friends for fun," says Shaughnessy's son, Stephen, one of the school's most popular teachers. "Our primary purpose is to instill the joy of chess."
And you're never too young to learn. Ben Rood, who won the 1st grade trophy at the state championship, has been called one of the top six-year-olds in the world by no less than International Grandmaster Sam Collins.
And waiting in the wings is Josiah's little brother, Micah.
"He's only four," says Josiah. "But he can already play entire games in his head, without looking at the board!"
The Berkeley Chess School is a 501(c)3 non-profit organization, and ¼ of its students are on partial or full scholarships. For more information about its programs or to donate to the school, call 510-843-0150 or visit www.berkeleychessschool.org.

Mart Twain and the N-word

2011-01-08T16:18:00.000-08:00

When I was in high school, I had a history teacher named Salvatore Occhipinti who would announce at the beginning of every school year that any student who wrote what he considered an "intelligent" book report on "Huckleberry Finn" would get an automatic A in the class and be exempted from all exams and papers for the rest of the year.
But, he added, nobody had ever done so.
I was too chicken to take Mr. Occhipinti up on his challenge, and a good thing, too. I probably would have said that the book is a picaresque novel about the adventures of Huck and a runaway slave named Jim as they travel on a raft down the Mississippi.
All of which is true, of course, but it completely misses the point. There's a reason why every great American writer since Twain's time - including Ernest Hemingway, F. Scott Fitzgerald and T.S. Eliot - has called "Huckleberry Finn" the best American novel ever.
"All modern American literature comes from one book by Mark Twain called 'Huckleberry Finn,'" said Hemingway. "There was nothing before. There has been nothing as good since."
But now comes word that a publishing company called NewSouth Books is coming out with an expurgated version of the novel, and it's hired Alan Gribben, chairman of the English department at Auburn University, to do the censoring.
At issue: Twain's liberal use of the N-word, which offends a lot of people.
But not in Professor Gribben's version. The N-word has been replaced by "slave."
Only one problem with this approach: It completely negates what the novel is all about.
"Huckleberry Finn" is about racism. It's the story of how somebody who has been a racist all his life - namely, Huck - unlearns his racism, told by the racist himself.
OF COURSE he's going to use the N-word! That's how racists talk! (Or, at least, think.)
Huck is a racist because he's been taught since childhood that slavery is a good thing, that God approves of it, and that if he helps a runaway slave like Jim, he'll go straight to hell.
As he gets to know Jim, he realizes that Jim is a human being just like him, and a very good human being at that.
But his conscience keeps gnawing at him, and finally he resists the sinful temptation to help Jim and writes a letter to Miss Watson, Jim's owner, telling her where her "property" can be recovered.
Then comes the most sublime moment in American literature:
"I took it up, and held it in my hand. I was a-trembling, because I'd got to decide, forever, betwixt two things, and I knowed it. I studied a minute, sort of holding my breath, and then says to myself: 'All right, then, I'll go to hell' - and tore it up."
I still can't read that paragraph without weeping for joy. If there's hope for Huck, there's hope for all of us.
But the magic doesn't work if you mess with Twain's words. He knew what he was doing. Despite the use of this disgusting word - or maybe because of it - "Huckleberry Finn" is a profoundly anti-racist work.
I'm sure Professor Gribben is well intentioned. But I'll tell you one thing: He would have gotten an F from Mr. Occhipinti.

Pilgrims' Progress

2011-01-04T13:43:00.001-08:00

(Above: Cardinal Newman)

On September 19, John Henry Cardinal Newman, one of the most prominent churchmen of the 19th Century, was beatified by Pope Benedict XVI in a ceremony in Newman's home town, Birmingham, England, that was attended by more than 60,000 pilgrims.
Two of those pilgrims were John Cummins, Bishop emeritus of the Diocese of Oakland, and Rev. George Crespin, pastor emeritus of St. Joseph the Worker parish in Berkeley.
The two have been friends since the early '60s, when Crespin was the very first priest ordained in the newly-formed Diocese of Oakland, which was split off from the Archdiocese of San Francisco in 1962. Cummins was the diocese's first chancellor and Crespin's mentor.
Cummins has been a Newman fan since his seminary days, when he read Newman's famous Advent sermon, "Unreal Words."
"His point was that when you talk about God you're talking about mystery, no matter what you say," says Cummins. "I never forgot it. It made a heck of an impression on me."
As Bishop, Cummins used to quote Newman so much, people would tease him about it. Naturally, he wanted to attend the beatification.
"But I knew how much he hates to travel alone," says Crespin. "So I said, 'OK, I'll go with you.'"
Before traveling to England, they stopped in Rome for a few days to visit some old friends who work at the Vatican.
"That was our only mistake - going to Rome before we went to England," says Crespin. "We should have gone to England first because after Rome, the food in England was a big comedown."
But food aside, Birmingham turned out to be everything they hoped for - and more.
"We had been worried that people might think the Pope was trying to poach followers from the Church of England because Newman left the Anglican Church to become a Roman Catholic," says Crespin. "But there was no resentment at all. In fact, I noticed a number of Anglican bishops at the beatification."
Cummins adds, "The streets were lined with people. They still have a very positive memory of him, even after all these years. They're very proud that he was one of them, and they were very flattered that the Pope came. It was a big deal."
It was a four-day love-fest of welcoming speeches by the Lord Mayor, prayers, scholarly seminars, receptions, and a performance of Edward Elgar's "Dream of Gerontius" (inspired by a famous Newman poem of the same name), performed in the same concert hall where it had its first performance 100 years ago.
But, ironically, they never made it to the beatification ceremony itself. On the morning of the ceremony it started raining cats and dogs, and Crespin suddenly suffered an excruciating flare-up of gout. So, rather than facing the prospect of standing for four hours or more in the rain, Cummins sensibly suggested they watch on TV in their hotel room, instead.
"It turned out to be the right decision," he says. "The Pope speaks with a heavy German accent; and with outdoor speakers and the rain, we would have missed most of what he had to say. This way, we got to hear every word."
Besides, as even non-Catholics like me know, the point of any pilgrimage isn't the destination, it's the journey. And the real journey is the journey inward.

All Things Must Pass

2010-12-27T12:06:00.000-08:00

I'll never forget the day Donald Crisp died.
More precisely, I'll never forget the look on my mother's face when I said, "Who's Donald Crisp?"
He was an English character actor who specialized in kindly grandfather roles. (He won an Oscar in 1942 in "How Green Was My Valley.")
But I didn't know that then. So when he died in 1974, my blank stare hit my mother like a sledgehammer.
She was 63 - two years younger than I am now - and at that age you're beginning to feel your own mortality.
For a while, you try to console yourself with the thought that even if you won't last forever, at least the world you've known and loved will.
But then something comes along to remind you that your entire world, too, will pass and be forgotten.
That's what happened to my mother. Donald Crisp someone she grew up watching. He was part of the cultural air she breathed. So my ignorance felt like a death knell for everything she loved.
And that's how I felt a couple of weeks ago when a young friend said, "Who's Don Meredith?"
There's no reason why she would have heard of him. He broadcast his last game on "Monday Night Football" in 1984, long before she was born.
But to me, it was a sign that my world, too, is rapidly fading.
Part of me wants to grab every young person I meet by the lapels and shout, "No! No! Don't forget Dandy Don and Humble Howard! Don't forget Don Sherwood, Tommy Saunders and Russ the Moose!"
But, of course, they will be forgotten. And that's the way it should be.
The younger generations need to make space for their own cultural icons. They don't have room for all the leftovers from my era, any more than my generation had room for Rudy Vallee, Emil Coue or the Clicquot Club Eskimos.
And there's no way we can predict what posterity will judge important. Bach was forgotten for almost a hundred years after his death until he was rediscovered in the 19th century. Ditto for Vermeer.
Then there's that Christmas classic I watched on TV last week, "It's A Wonderful Life."
Believe it or not, it was a huge flop on its first release. When the director, Frank Capra, wrote his autobiography in 1971, he lamented that he would be remembered for "Lost Horizon," "Mr. Smith Goes To Washington" and "It Happened One Night," but not for his favorite film, "It's A Wonderful Life."
"Lost Horizon" was a movie that resonated powerfully for my father and every other man of his generation. But today it's almost forgotten, while "It's A Wonderful Life" is regarded as a masterpiece.
What happened? Simple: The copyright on "It's A Wonderful Life" expired, which freed TV stations all over the country to broadcast it every Christmas. And a new generation of viewers saw it with new eyes.
Incidentally, remember the scene where Jimmy Stewart and Donna Reed are dancing on the high school basketball floor, and it opens up and the fall into a swimming pool underneath?
That was my high school. We used to open it up 20 feet and have tug-of-wars, with the losers falling in.
I hope that's one tradition that won't fade.

No Room At The Inn

2010-12-20T16:09:00.000-08:00

Remember those ads for Levy's Rye Bread that read, "You don't have to be Jewish to love Levy's?"
Well, you don't have to be Christian to love Christmas, either.
I'm evidence of that. I'm not a Christian, but I love everything about the holiday - the carols, the food, the decorations, the excitement of little children, strangers wishing each other "Merry Christmas" on the street.
Most of all, I love the Christmas story. And I've felt that way since I was a kid.
How can you not? It has everything a kid could want.
Adventure: An innocent young couple on the run, desperately trying to stay one step ahead of the evil king's soldiers.
Suspense: Will the soldiers catch them and kill the baby before they can escape to Egypt?
Intrigue: Who is this baby's father, anyhow?
Irony: If only those innkeepers knew whom they were turning away!
Best of all, the hero of the story is a child.
And not just any child, either. He's a true hero - wise, strong, loving and self-sacrificing.
Over the years, we've done our best to ruin Christmas. We've commercialized it, politicized it and smothered it with kitsch, including a talking snowman, a mutant reindeer and an overweight elf.
But try as we might, the true message of the still manages to shine through, despite everything.
You can see it in the families who spend part of their Christmas day working in a soup kitchen.
And the volunteers who build homes for the homeless.
And the kind souls who take time out of their Christmas celebrations to feed feral cats who otherwise would go hungry.
And the Meals on Wheels volunteers who bring food - and some human contact - to people who are imprisoned in their own homes by illness or infirmity.
And the cops, firefighters, PG&E linemen, doctors, nurses and paramedics who give up their Christmases to work that day to protect the rest of us.
Christians would call this generosity proof of the power of the Holy Spirit, and who am I to say differently?
This hasn't been the easiest of Christmas seasons. The recession keeps dragging on, and people are still hurting.
At the same time, donations to local charities and food banks are down. Many organizations that help the most vulnerable among us are in serious danger of going under.
It's not that people are ungenerous. It's just that we're all so hard-pressed, we feel obligated to look after our own families before we can think about helping anyone else.
And yet we must help them, because there's no one else. There's something worse than not having the latest flat-screen TV; namely, knowing that your neighbor is suffering when you could have prevented it.
And make no mistake: The poor ARE our neighbors. There's a mean spirit abroad in the land, with some people blaming the poor for their own plight.
But I'd rather listen to the man whose birthday we're celebrating this weekend. He said, "Whatever you did for one of the least of my brothers and sisters, you did for me."
So even though we're all feeling the pinch, let's remember that there's always someone out there who is hurting even worse. We truly are our brothers' and sisters' keepers.

Eat At Larry's

2010-12-12T16:07:00.000-08:00

Yes, Virginia, there really was a Larry Blake.
The legendary restaurant owner died in 1992, but his fun-loving spirit still rules the eponymous Berkeley eatery that bears his name.
Larry sold it to one of his old waiters, Harry Kealey, in 1978. And although the name was changed in 2002 from Larry Blake's to Blakes On Telegraph, Larry would have no trouble recognizing it.
He founded the place in 1940, financed by $700 he won in a high-stakes poker game from a gambler named Porterhouse Pete - so called because he could devour two 2-lb. porterhouse steaks in a sitting.
Porterhouse Pete became one of Larry's best customers, always ordering the same thing: the 20-oz. "He-Man Steak" ("It takes a man to carry it in, and it takes a man to carry it out," read the menu); two baked potatoes with bacon, sour cream and chives; a double order of salad; a loaf of bread with plenty of butter; three slices of apple pie a la mode; and a pitcher of iced tea sweetened with saccharine because, as he explained, "I'm trying to lose weight."
But Larry's most loyal customers were the generations of Cal students who made his joint their home away from home.
Many were jocks, from Jackie Jensen to Joe Kapp, who held their training tables at Larry Blake's for decades until the cafeteria at Haas Pavilion opened in 1999.
Others were counter-cultural icons such as Abbie Hoffman and Jerry Rubin - both lousy tippers, by the way - and Timothy Leary, who spent the entire meal asking for antacids.
Larry was a character, even by Berkeley standards. As a publicity stunt during the 1949 Big Game, he hired a real-life Arab sheik - who was a grad student at Cal at the time - to ride a circus elephant across the Bay Bridge holding a huge sign reading, "I'm going to Larry Blake's for a good steak!"
Back then, a Blakeburger cost $1.25. Today, it'll set you back $5.49. It's called a Blakes Burger now; and, as a concession to changing tastes, it's made from hormone-free Niman Ranch beef.
But the famous Blake's salad dressing is unchanged from the secret recipe Larry invented during World War II, when he was a cook in the U.S. Army.
That secret has been divulged only once: back in the 1950s, when the wife of a local Mafia boss requested the recipe.
"I said no as nicely as I could," Larry told me years later. "Then her husband came to see me and said, 'Suppose I give you this for the recipe?' and handed me a C-note.
"That was a lot of dough in those days, but I refused. So he said, 'Suppose I gave you this?' and offered me two C-notes.
"But I still refused, so he pulled open his jacket to reveal a huge pistol stuck in his waistband and said, 'How about if I give you THIS?' I gave him the recipe."
A few things have changed over the years. For instance, the sawdust on the Rathskeller floor was removed in the 1980s when they installed new sound equipment for the live music acts.
But in every important way, it's still the same old Larry Blake's. Happy 70th anniversary, and may it prosper for another 70 years!

The Spirit of Christmas Past

2010-12-06T16:23:00.000-08:00

Ten years ago, the people of El Cerrito confronted a crisis. Sundar Shadi, the man who created the city's most beloved Holiday tradition, was forced by age and failing eyesight to call it quits.
The tradition started in 1949, when Mr. Shadi's neighbors awoke one morning to find a single star in his front yard. It was his way of wishing them a merry Christmas, even though he wasn't a Christian himself.
Every year after that he kept adding shepherds, wise men, angels, camels goats, sheep, doves, spires stars, minarets and domes - all lovingly handmade by Mr. Shadi from papier-mâché and chicken wire and painted by hand.
The display kept growing until it finally numbered more than 150 figures, depicting the town of Bethlehem.
But there were no statues of Jesus, Mary or Joseph. Mr. Shadi was a Sikh, and he came to this country from India to escape religious persecution from both Hindus and Muslims. So he purposely kept the display non-denominational.
The people of El Cerrito quickly took Mr. Shadi and his creation to their hearts.
"To many people around here, Mr. Shadi WAS Christmas," says former Mayor Jane Bartke.
And his fame spread far beyond the city limits. Tour busses used to line up, bringing visitors from as far away as Sacramento and San Jose - more than 70,000 every Christamas time.
Mr. Shadi died in 2002 at age 101. But despite the sadness, something wonderful happened that showed why El Cerrito is such a special place.
From its beginning, El Cerrito has struggled uphill. I mean, how you like to have a busy thoroughfare like San Pablo Avenue as your main street, effectively slicing your town in half?
But despite this, I know no other city that can match El Cerrito's down-home, small-town flavor. It may be in the shadow of bigger cities like Berkeley and Oakland, but its people love it dearly.
So it was no surprise that when Mr. Shadi died, they refused to let his legacy die with him
Under Bartke's leadership, the El Cerrito Soroptomist Club took over the sculptures - with the blessing of the Shadi family - and restored them to their former glory.
In 2003 the Shadi sculptures made a triumphant return, and they've been brightening our Holidays ever since. This year they'll be on display at the corner of Moeser and Seaview every day until 10 p.m. from Dec. 18 to 27.
It's been a true community effort, with individual volunteers joining forces with local businesses; PG&E, which provides the land; and Professional Firefighters of Contra Costa County Local 1230, who, working on their own time, haul the sculptures up the hill every year and return them to storage when Christmas is over.
But now the Shadi sculptures face a new crisis.
"We're getting too old to do this much longer," says Bartke, who is 72. "We need to start training the next generation to take over from us. If we don't get someone to step up, this tradition is going to die."
It's up to you, El Cerritans. The Shadi sculptures have been an important part of our Christmases since we were little kids. Are we going to deny our own children and grandchildren the same experience?
E-mail shadidisplay@aol.com if you want to volunteer.
Merry Christmas.

Dear Santa

2010-12-05T16:18:00.000-08:00

"Dear Santa,
"Last year I asked for a pony. I did not get a pony. Do you know what I got? Do you? Guess! Guess!
"I GOT A STUFFED ANIMAL PONY!
"When I say pony, I mean REAL! Do you know the meaning of this word?
"Well, just letting you know that I am a very upset individual. I hope you do better this year!
"With hope and dreams, Emily."

"Dear Santa, Thank you for all the stuff you gave me last year! How did you find the American Girl Chrisa swimsuit? I love it! You rock! Love, Camille."

"My name is Octavio and I am 10 years old. My brother Emilio is 9 years old and Danny is 3. My mom is very sick, so we won't be able to celebrate Christmas this year. My brother Emilio and I are disabled. Danny is OK. I like Transformer toys, and Emilio and Danny like remote control cars. Please Santa come to visit us. And make my mommy well."

Once again, thousands of letters like these are pouring into the downtown Oakland Post Office from children all over Northern California. Some are heartwarming, some are heartrending, and some are simply hilarious.
And once again, the post office is inviting the public to become Santa's helpers for a day and answer some of these missives.
"You don't necessarily have to send a present," says Consumer Affairs Director Elma Ramirez, who founded the Santa's Mailbag project 24 years ago. "Sometimes they're happy just hearing from someone who cares."
On the other hand, if you are moved to send a present, nobody's going to stop you.
To become a Santa's helper, call the Santa hotline at 510-622-7420 and leave your number. They'll call you back and sign you up.
In the meantime, here are this year's batch of letters. As always, the kids never fail to surprise:

"Dear Santa, What do you do after Christmas? My mom thinks you go to Hawaii. How is Mrs. Claus? I was surprised when I saw the golf clubs. I wanted them, but I didn't tell anyone. How do you know that stuff? Love, Caroline. P.S. Tell Comet I said hi. He's my favorite."

"Dear Santa, How are you? How is Mrs. Claus? Did you have a good summer? I did, and now I'm in the 6th grade. I just got my first report card, and you know what I did? My GPA was 3.75, and my report card showed my rad skills. I got 6 As and 2 Bs, so I did awesome! Your friend, Silas. P.S. I will never stop believing in you."

"Dear Santa, I was good because I didn't use bad words. Love, Ritwick."

"Dear Mr. Santa Claus, I have been nice sometimes. I was nice after school today, and I was nice last Thursday. Love, Jennifer."

"Dear Santa, I think I've been a good girl. But I can be rude or mean, so please forgive me. For Christmas I want my family to be happy. Sincerely, Madi-Moo (Madison)."

"Dear Santa, My grandma says I've been good, but my auntie says I've been bad. You be the judge. Signed, Richard."

"Dear Santa, I hope all is well at the North Pole. How are the reindeer doing? I'd really like a horse trailer with a red truck and tons of horses for Christmas. I'd also like to say happy birthday to Jesus. Love, Luke."

"Dear Santa, I have some good news and bad news. I'm sure you already know, but it would be nice to tell you. My mom and brother and I have to move, and we have no idea where we are going. All the money Mom made waitressing she spent on socks and toothbrushes and stuff for us. She is really doing bad this year, so I am asking you for stuff for her. Anything will do. I know she will be so happy. Thank you, Santa. I know you know everything because you are Santa. I know God will help us as well. Love, Jaida."

"Dear Santa, I really like your Macy's store. It's big and full of good stuff. Thanks, Anna."

"Dear Santa, I need supplies for school because I am constantly running out of pencils and paper because my dog, Choco, keeps chewing them. Sincerely, Jose."

"Dear Santa, My name is Choco, and I am a Chihuahua. I really need a chew toy that squeaks because all the toys I have are ripped because I keep chewing them. My owner, Jose, gives me his socks to chew but I really don't like them. Sincerely, Choco."

"Dear Santa Claus, My name is Ashley and my twin brother's name is Chris. We are both 9 years old. My mom is disabled due to spine surgery in 2002, and my dad is 80% disabled due to an injury at work in 2009. We are barely making it with only my dad's disability check two times a month. One check is always for the rent and the other is for food and bills. So maybe you can bring me and my brother some gifts this year. I would like some books to read, and my brother would like a Nintendo game. Thank you very much, Ashley."

"Dear Santa, I know this is a little silly, but may I have a gift card from Abercrombie or Hollister? I've been trying hard to be an extra good girl, but sometimes I am naughty, I have to admit. But I will be fantastic next year! Love, Juliette. P.S. Thanks for the card last year."

"Dear Santa, Hello, my name is Neylan. I wish there were peace in the world. I don't like violence."

"Dear Santa, What kind of cookies do you like? I like chocolate chip, don't you? Hey, why don't you send me back a letter? Then you can put questions and answers on it! Isn't that a great idea? See? See? See what I mean? Man, please? Oh, never mind. My wish list is on the back. Sincerely, Nicole."

"Dear Santa, This year I would like a last generation iPod Nano and a $50 gift certificate to iTunes. If you can't get it I'll understand; but could you, like, try hard? Sincerely, Connor."

"Dear Santa Claus, All I want for Christmas is a Meyer lemon and a plasma screen TV. Love, Brynli."

"Dear Santa, Can you please bring me some warm clothes? You know how much it has been raining and how cold it gets here. Santa, I will be waiting for you and your helpers. Please don't forget about me. Sincerely, Zaira."

"Dear Santa, The North Pole is very cold. If you need help with any toys, come get me. Love, Olivia."

"Dear Santa, My family is a family of six. This year has been a rough year, and we might lose our house. So I don't want something for me this Christmas, I want something, even if it's a small thing, for my whole family. Merry Christmas, Priscilla."

"Dear Santa, I am in the 2nd grade. I do my homework, I help my mom, I'm nice to my family. Thank you for reading my letter. Love, Carlos."

"Dear Santa, I am eleven years old. Some people I meet say you aren't real, but I still believe in you. Please write back Santa. Sincerely, Alysia."

"Dear Santa Claws, I would like my two front teeth and other gifts. Sincerely, Lydia."

"Dear Santa, Thank you for being there watching over us all year. My sister and I are trying to get along as best as possible. I will try to be a better boy until you come see us on Christmas, I will leave you some cookies and milk. Love you, John."

"Hello Santa. I have a question for you. Do you celebrate any other holiday besides Christmas? Please write back. From Christopher."

"Dear Santa Claus, I've done good things. I helped my friends from mean kids. I also got As and Bs. You are the greatest man in the worrrrrrrrrrrld! Love, Geronimo."

"Dear Santa, For Christmas I would like an i-Carly video set, a big ring for my mom, and some money for the Humane Society." (Unsigned.)

"Dear Santa, what would YOU like for a present? Love, Maggie."

"Dear Santa, This year I don't really want anything. I feel so lucky that I have a roof over my head, food and water, and so many great family and friends to talk to.
"I lied - there is one thing I would love. It would be so nice if you could give something extra to families less fortunate than others. Merry Christmas and Happy New Year, Hattie."

Toy Story

2010-11-21T16:05:00.000-08:00

Every town should have a toy store like Mr. Mopps'.
You know what I mean: an old-fashioned mom & pop store with friendly vibes, nooks and crannies to explore, and aisle after aisle piled from floor to ceiling with wonderful toys of all shapes, sizes and prices.
Since 1962, Mr. Mopps' has been a veritable Mecca for the children of Berkeley. Generation after generation have grown up and brought their own children - and now their grandchildren - to Mr. Mopps'.
So when word spread last April that longtime owner Eugene Yamashita was planning to retire and close Mr. Mopps', the whole city went into mourning.
But I have great news: Mr. Mopps' isn't closing after all. At the last second, somebody stepped forward to buy the store.
And here's the best part: THEY'RE GOING TO KEEP IT EXACTLY THE WAY IT IS!
"Well, almost exactly," says new owner Devin McDonald, who bought the place with his girlfriend, Jenny Stevenson. "We'll still have swords and laser blasters, but that's about it as far as military stuff. No more cap guns or realistic-looking weaponry."
On the other hand, they'll keep stocking a few Barbie Dolls, much to Jenny's discomfort.
"We were torn about it because of what they say about body image," she says. "But our rep really twisted our arm."
Owning Mr. Mopps' has been a lifelong dream for Devin, who grew up in Berkeley. (His father is singer/songwriter and antiwar/veterans' rights activist Country Joe McDonald.)
Devin has been a loyal Mr. Mopps' customer since he was a toddler, when his grandmother, the late City Councilwoman Florence McDonald, took him there and bought him his favorite teddy bear, Mr. Choo-Choo.
(Incidentally, Mr. Choo-Choo is still with us, albeit a little worse for wear, resting in a place of honor in Devin and Jenny's living room.)
In a related story, one longtime customer, Gabriella Raymond, is spearheading a campaign to refurbish the huge Mr. Mopps' Lion, who has kept watch from his special window on Martin Luther King Way for more than 30 years.
"He's getting awfully mangy, and his head doesn't turn to greet you as you walk by anymore," she says.
You can contribute by visiting the "Fans Of The Mr. Mopps' Lion" page on Facebook or by dropping a few coins in the lion-shaped piggy bank on the counter in the store.
Ever since word got out that Mr. Mopps' isn't going to close after all, the tears have turned to cheers.
"We get hugged by strangers and thanked every day," says Jenny. "People come in all choked up, thinking they're going to be shopping here for the last time, and then their faces light up when they find out it isn't true."
Mr. Mopps' will be open through the Holiday season, then will close for a few days while Devin and Jenny brighten it up with a new paint job and get rid of decades of dust.
"I wouldn't have sold it to anyone but them," says Yamashita. "I was prepared to shut it down, but I saw this young couple who really understand what it's all about and want to continue the tradition. I hope they can do better than I did."
That's a tall order because he did it to perfection. But I think Devin and Jenny are up to the job.

Dear Santa

2010-11-15T16:16:00.000-08:00

The Holidays are almost here, which means it's almost time for me to write my favorite story of the year - the annual "Kids' Christmas Letters to Santa Claus."
The story will run in a couple of weeks, but I wanted to give you a head's up so you'll be on the lookout for it, and also because the Oakland Post Office's consumer affairs director, Elma Ramirez, who founded the Santa letters project 24 years ago, needs volunteers this year more than ever.
But they don't make it easy for you. Last year, the Postal Service instituted some new rules to protect the children's privacy. No kids have ever been harmed because of this project, and they want to keep it that way.
In the old days, all you had to do was call Ramirez, and she'd send you as many letters as you wanted.
But now you have to show up in person at the main post office at 2091 13th Street in downtown Oakland (corner of 13th and Alice), Room 226, so they can check your I.D. as a security precaution.
Then they'll give you letters with the kids' contact information redacted, which means if you write back or buy any presents, you'll have to bring them back to the post office to be mailed.
It's a hassle, but it has to be done. A sad commentary on the times we live in.
"But there's been one unexpected upside," says Ramirez. "Before last year, we never got to meet any of our volunteers. It wasn't until they started bringing the presents here that we realized just how generous they were. They showed up with bicycles, hundreds of dollars worth of gifts, and so many toys! And they were high end toys, too!"
And that's the final reason why I'm writing this column: Ramirez asked me to thank you all on her behalf.
In addition to letter writers, she also needs some people to help her staff sort the letters, which are already piling up in her office.
The letters will be separated into two stacks - needy and non-needy. And the kids never lose their capacity to surprise. One year, a little girl wrote, "Dear Santa, Do you know Jesus? Are you friends? Please tell him I said hi."
And a little boy wrote, "Dear Santa, I'm Jewish and I know I shouldn't believe in you, but I can't help it."
And, of course, there's always a wiseacre who writes, "Dear Santa, Can you please make my little brother go away?"
But overwhelming majority of letters aren't funny at all. They're from desperately poor children who are facing another bleak Holiday season. Some have never had a Christmas present in their lives.
What really breaks your heart is when they say, "Santa, you don't have to give me anything, but could you please bring something for my little sister?"
And you'd be stunned by the number of kids who ask Santa to find Mom or Dad a job.
So if you can help sort letters, or buy a present for a needy child, or answer a letter from a non-needy child, please call Ramirez at 510-622-7420 and leave your phone number. It'll be the best Christmas present you ever gave yourself.

It Ain't Necessarily So

2010-11-06T15:45:00.000-07:00

(Above: Oakland's newest council member, Libby Schaaf)

What will the historians of the future say when they write about the Great Shellacking of 2010?
Conservatives will say it was a voter revolt against big government and big spending.
Liberals will say it was an outbreak of mass hysteria stoked by cynical politicians who knew how to manipulate people's fears and prejudices.
And those in the middle will say, "It was the economy, stupid."
All three will have a kernel of truth. But it's equally true that the Democrats still might have pulled it out, despite everything, if John O'Connor hadn't been diagnosed with Alzheimer's 25 years ago.
By 2005 his condition had deteriorated to the point where his wife Sandra decided she had to give up her job to take care of him.
Her job was Associate Justice of the Supreme Court; and that seat was filled by Sam Alito, who turned out to be the critical fifth vote in Citizens United case, which opened the floodgates of corporate money and decisively tipped the playing field in favor of the Republicans.
As the old proverb puts it, "For want of a nail, the horseshoe was lost; for want of the horseshoe, the rider was lost; for want of the rider, the battle was lost - all for the want of a nail."
One of the biggest mistakes we make about history is to assume everything was inevitable. It wasn't.
What if St. Paul hadn't survived that shipwreck off the Maltese coast? Would Christianity still have become the world's dominant religion?
What if Robert E. Lee's Special Order No. 191, describing his plans and troop dispositions in detail, hadn't accidentally fallen into the hands of Union soldiers before the battle of Antietam? Would the North still have won the Civil War?
History is full of such what-might-have-beens. The moral, which we keep ignoring all the time, is that nothing is predetermined.
Yes, large overarching historical trends are important. But so are the choices that individuals make. Our actions do make a difference.
To paraphrase Shakespeare: The power is not in our stars, it's in ourselves - for better or worse.
And to paraphrase Scoop Nisker: if you don't like history, go out and make some of your own.
Meanwhile, I was glad to see that Libby Schaaf won the race for Oakland City Council from District 4.
She has a resume as long as your arm, including working as a top aide for once-and-future Governor Jerry Brown. But I remember her as that adorable little girl who was Raggedy Ann at Children's Fairyland in 1976.
The Raggedy Andy was her BFF Leslie Zimmerman, who, years later, was the maid of honor at her wedding. (They were seriously tempted to wear their big red yarn wigs at the ceremony, but they finally decided against it.)
Libby has always given Fairyland the credit for launching her political career.
"It taught me how to speak in front of large groups and to be responsible for the commitments I make," she told me. "But most of all, it taught me to be kind."
Congratulations Libby. Here's hoping you and your generation take over and kick us old folks out of power as soon as possible. I know you'll do a better job than we did.
You could hardly do worse.

Best Boss Ever

2010-11-01T15:34:00.000-07:00

(Above: Admiral Clark in his dress uniform.)

A good boss is worth his/her weight in gold.
And the best boss I've ever heard of was Admiral J.J. Clark, who commanded Task Force 58 in the South Pacific during World War II. His flagship was the aircraft carrier USS Hornet, which is now a floating museum docked at Alameda Point.
He was the ideal leader, a guy you would follow anywhere, and he was a second father to every man on the ship.
He didn't stand on ceremony. Everyone down to the lowliest sailor called him by his nickname, "Jocko." And they adored him.
"There was nothing we wouldn't do for the Old Man," said Frank MacDonald of Oakland, "because there was nothing he wouldn't do for us."
There are so many classic Jocko stories, I hardly know where to begin. Like the time a young sailor swung open a door that Jocko was standing behind and knocked the admiral flat on his kiester. A lieutenant commander grabbed the kid and started screaming at him.
"The next thing I saw was a gigantic hand as it reached over and placed itself on the shoulder of the still shouting lieutenant commander," the sailor recalled. "In a loud voice, I heard Admiral Clark say, 'Go back to your work station and leave this boy alone! I was just standing in the wrong place!'"
Or the time another young sailor fell asleep while on watch - a hanging offense in wartime - only to be awakened by a gentle tugging on his arm. Standing over him was Jocko, murmuring, "Boy, boy, boy. You know you're not supposed to sleep on watch."
The kid spent the next few days in abject terror, expecting to be arrested at any moment. But nothing happened. Jocko hadn't even put him on report.
But my favorite Jocko story is the time a typhoon caved in the Hornet's bow, making it impossible to launch planes the normal way, off the front. Jocko simply turned the shop around and sailed backwards at full speed, launching the planes from the rear.
"The guys on the other ships must have thought the Old Man had finally lost his marbles," said MacDonald.
Jocko was unique in so many ways. He overcame prejudice to become the first Native American to graduate from Annapolis. And, since many of his battles were fought at night, he slept on a cot on the bridge so he could spring into action at a moment's notice.
It was a common sight to see him directing the battle wearing his polka-dot pajamas and fuzzy slippers - but with his admiral's hat firmly clamped on his head.
Next Friday would have been Jocko's 117th birthday. He died in 1971 and was buried with full honors at Arlington National Cemetery.
But his real monument is the Hornet itself. Stepping onto the ship is like stepping back into history. So many things - the radar room, where they tracked incoming enemy planes; the ready room, where the pilots got their final briefings before battle; the mess hall; the living quarters - are in perfect working order. This isn't an amusement park ride. This is the real deal.
If you're looking for a good way to observe Veterans Day next week, I can't think of a better place to do it.

Cal's Greatest Generation

2010-10-30T11:41:00.000-07:00

(Above: G.I.s hit the beach on D-Day)

Rosamond Castle '43 remembers Dec. 7, 1941, like it was yesterday.
"I was walking through Sather Gate toward Wheeler Hall, and I saw people huddling around, staring at newspapers. By the time I got to Doe Library I heard something about Pearl Harbor. Then inside the library everyone was talking about what had happened."
The news was so incredible, Catherine "Cappy" Vail Bridge '42 didn't believe it at first.
"I thought it was a hoax, like Orson Welles' 'War of the Worlds' broadcast a few years before."
So began America's entry into World War II, which ended 65 years ago this summer. To celebrate the end of that terrible war, we talked with some of the Golden Bears who lived through it.
The days after Pearl Harbor were a mix of uncertainty and fear.
"It was the middle of finals," says Jean Heying Rusmore '42. "We didn't have blackout curtains yet, so we couldn't study in our rooms because you couldn't have any light showing outside. So we sat on the floor in the hallways and studied there, instead."
"The great fear was for the young men of our class," adds Rosamond. "The young man I was dating invited me to the Class of '42 graduation ball at the Palace Hotel, even though we were both Class of '43, because he knew he probably wouldn't make it to our real graduation in 1943. And he was not alone."
It didn't take long for tragedy to strike home. In April 1942, Ed Tackle '41, who had been editor of the Daily Cal, was killed on the infamous Bataan Death March.
Four months later, Rosamond's beloved older brother, Gordon Craig, was killed off Guadalcanal when an enemy bomb blew apart the bridge of his ship, right were he was stationed.
"My last image of him was the day he went away, when he turned and saluted me and my mother at the door," she says. "I still miss him every day."
Jean Marchant '45 adds, "Our class had a flag made, and we hung it from the Campanile. Every time we got word that someone from Cal had been killed, we added another star."
A few weeks after Pearl Harbor, tragedy struck the campus in a different way.
"One day, my best friend, Grace Imamoto, who was also Class of '42, asked me if I would keep her tennis racket for her," says Jean Heying Rusmore '42. "I didn't know what she was talking about. I said, 'Grace, don't you like to play tennis anymore?' And she said, 'Jean, I have to go away.'"
Grace and all the other Japanese-American students were sent to detention camps for the duration of the war.
"We wanted to help them," says Clavel Fender '43. "The day before they were taken away, we held a tea party for them, with everyone dressed in pastel evening gowns. How innocent we were!"
As the men went off to war, the women threw themselves into supporting the home front.
"We would pick tomatoes or wrap bandages or make Bundles for Britain," says Jean Marchant '42. "Whatever we could do to help."
"There was such a shortage of men on campus, many of us sorority girls used to go to the USO in downtown Berkeley," adds Gwyneth Caster Page '45. "I asked a Marine captain to escort me to the senior ball. I went out and bought a beautiful black taffeta-and-lace formal and little pearl earrings. I thought I looked very chic. The doorbell rang, and there was my date in full dress Marine uniform. He was prettier than I was!"
Many of the younger faculty also went off to war, which meant the remaining undergrads had the cream of the crop as their professors.
"We had all the big guns," says Margaret Cooney Walton '47. "Glenn Seaborg was my section leader in chem!"
Army Capt. Charlie Fender '41 and his wife, Clavel '43, wrote each other every single day of the war, without fail. Whenever his outfit liberated a new city, Charlie would buy a little charm and send it to Clavel, who put them all on a bracelet that remains her most treasured possession.
Charlie was the military governor of the devastated town of Cerignola, Italy, where he rebuilt the social infrastructure from the ground up, establishing a new judicial system, schools, food supplies, and fire and police protection.
"Every day was a lot of fun because I was being useful," he says. And the locals really appreciated it.
"Twenty-seven years later he took me back," says Clavel. "When we checked into the hotel, the man behind the desk took one look at Charlie and said, "I remember you!" He whisked us to the city hall and shouted to the chief of police, 'Get out of that chair! The governor's here!' You can imagine how that impressed me."
Gordon Binder '40 was an Army field surgeon in Europe, operating under enemy fire only a few hundred yards behind the front lines.
"We didn't have an operating room, not even a tent. Just a field somewhere where we'd put up a sign saying, 'Battalion Aid Station.' We'd just park there and receive the casualties."
Many of the casualties were beyond saving. The best he could do was shoot them full of morphine to ease their agony.
"Nobody can imagine how awful it was. It was just horrible. You assumed you weren't going to make it. You knew you were going to get killed. It was just a question of when."
Bob Breuer '43 served on the U.S.S. Wichita, a heavy cruiser in the Pacific. At 22, he was the old man of the group of 18 and 19 year olds whom he supervised.
"We were like family, and I was their uncle. One day, two of them were killed and several others badly wounded by friendly fire from one of our own ships. I just sat down and cried like a baby."
Chuck Auerbach '42 fought with Patton's Third Army in the Battle of the Bulge.
"Some of the things George C. Scott said in the movie I heard Patton say in real life. Unlike Scott, his voice was high and squeaky, but the pearl-handled revolvers were real. He'd race around in a jeep with a machine gun mounted on it, and he really tore down the road. I said to one of my buddies, 'That man's going to die in an automobile accident,' which is exactly what happened."
Not all the heroes were men. Catherine "Cappy" Bridge '42 was a member of the Women Air Service Pilots, or WASPs. Their job was to ferry fighters and bombers from the factory to the airfields, freeing up male pilots for the actual fighting.
"Gosh, it was fun! We just loved it. But it was still dangerous. Thirty-eight of our girls were killed on the job - mostly accidents, not pilot error. One of us would take the body home to her parents, and we would pass the hat among ourselves to cover the expenses."
There weren't many happy days in the war, but one of them was Aug. 25, 1944, the day Paris was liberated.
We've all seen the pictures of ecstatic Parisians swarming over the American tanks, showering the G.I.s with flowers and kisses.
One of the people in that crowd was Tito Moruza '43, who had already been in Paris for three weeks, waiting for the troops to arrive. Tito was an American special agent on a secret mission: As soon as the city was liberated, he was to make his way to Gestapo headquarters and seize all the documents so they could be used in war crimes trials after the war. Which he did.
Tito had landed in France on the morning of D-Day with the 82nd Airborne. Their canvas-and-plywood glider was ripped open by one of "Rommel's Asparagus" - wooden logs driven into fields along the Normandy coast. The three soldiers sitting next to Tito were mortally wounded.
"The youngest, who was only 18, cried for his mama. The second called for the medics, and the third cussed. That was when I lost my religion. I still haven't gotten it back."
While the others were fighting, Tito's job was to contact the French Resistance so they could smuggle him into Paris. He narrowly escaped capture several times, thanks to a heroic couple named Paul and Marcelle Dufour, who operated a safe house for Resistance fighters and escaping American prisoners of war. After the war, he named his first two children after them.
To this day, Tito refuses to watch a war movie. But he does have one happy memory of the war.
"My greatest blessing was that I never had to kill anybody. I'm not belittling those who did; that was their job. I was just lucky."
The war finally ended on Aug. 14, 1945. Jay Jacobus '43 heard the news as his ship was headed from San Francisco to the Pacific for the expected invasion of Japan.
"We all shouted, 'Turn the ship around!' So the ship made a left turn and headed for the Philippines, instead."
Gwyneth Page Caster '45 heard the news when she was in Cowell Hospital with a raging case of mono.
"Somebody sneaked me a bottle of something alcoholic to celebrate," she says. "It made me sick as a dog."
They have been called The Greatest Generation, a term that makes them distinctly uncomfortable.
"It bothers me a lot," says Dave Stewart '43. "I'm no hero. I just did my duty, like thousands of others. The real heroes are the guys who didn't come back."
Dave is being modest. He was awarded the Bronze Star, two combat medals and two Purple Hearts, the second for wounds suffered when he was hit by a German Panzerfaust anti-tank grenade.
"But I still have all my body parts," he says. "So I got out of it lucky."
But the last word belongs to Tom Mulcahy '43, who served on a Navy tanker in the Pacific.
"My two best friends were killed in the war," he says. "One was my best friend from high school, Danny Hurst. The other was Norm Hennessey, whom I rowed with on the Cal crew. I had a chance to get married to the greatest girl in the world, have kids and grandkids, and have a full life. They didn't."

(This story originally appeared in the Summer 2010 issue of California magazine.)

The Least Of My Brothers and Sisters

2010-10-25T14:10:00.001-07:00

(Above: Saint Vincent de Paul)

Every neighborhood should have someone like Bob.
(That's not his real name. I changed it to protect his family's privacy.)
He was one of those guys who know everyone on the block. Parents felt safe letting their kids play outside because they knew Bob would be keeping a watchful eye on them.
But one day he was killed by a stray bullet meant for someone who was running past him on the street. He was just an innocent bystander.
His family was devastated. And, since this was a high-crime area, they kept getting traumatized all over again every time they heard a gunshot, which was almost every day.
The obvious solution was to move, but there was a problem: Bob had been devoted to his dog, a pit bull. And his family couldn't bear to give the pooch away; it was their last link to him. But there aren't many landlords willing to rent to someone with a pit bull.
But Deb Collett, a case supervisor at Catholic Charities of the East Bay, wouldn't give up. She searched and searched and finally found a willing landlord in another city nearby.
They had to leave the kids' swing set and sandbox behind when they moved. So Catholic Charities provided the money to buy another swing set, and Collett personally built a sandbox in their new backyard.
"We finally have a home where we feel safe," said Bob's son.
That's just one of thousands of families and individuals whom Catholic Charities helps every year. Whether you're a low-income patient with AIDS, a working person who needs help getting a tax refund, or a recently arrived immigrant from Cambodia in desperate need of food, clothing and shelter, Catholic Charities is often your last, best hope.
And you don't have to be Catholic. They just want to help, no matter who you are.
Catholic Charities of the East Bay has been doing this since it was founded in 1934, during the depths of the Great Depression.
The organization will celebrate its 75th anniversary on Nov. 6 with a gala fundraiser at the Blackhawk Automotive Museum in Danville. (Call 510-768-3138 to make your reservation.)
Even if you can't attend, you can still contribute by visiting www.cceb.org or sending a check to 433 Jefferson Street, Oakland, CA 94607. (Catholic Charities also gets major funding from Oakland's Measure Y.)
But the heart and soul of Catholic Charities is its volunteers, and you don't need big bucks to do that. Just call 510-768-3121 to sign up.
Get creative, like Dorothy Buckley of Oakland. Back in 1986 she decided to tackle an obvious problem: Some kids never get a Christmas present because their families are so poor.
She started buying toys at sales during the rest of the year to distribute at Christmas time. She named the project "Joybells," and her motto was "Every time you give a child a present, you ring a bell in heaven."
Buckley died in 2008, but Joybells is going stronger than ever, with more than 20 volunteers carrying on in her spirit. For 23 Christmases, they have collected tens of thousands of toys for needy children in Alameda and Contra Costa counties.
They haven't forgotten Jesus' admonition: "As you did it to one of the least of my brothers and sisters, you did it to me." And neither should we.

Grrr-RAH!

2010-10-20T14:17:00.000-07:00

(Above: Joe Kapp back in the day)

Fifty-one years ago, Cal went to the Rose Bowl. And it hasn't been back since.
But some die-hards haven't given up hope - the guys who last did it.
Two weeks ago, that great 1958 team held a reunion at running back Bill Patton's home in Lafayette, and I was privileged to join them.
1958 was a different time, and Berkeley was a very different place.
"The most revolutionary thing that happened was that a non-frat man was elected student body president," said guard Pete Domoto. "That was considered radical back then."
The whole town was football crazy. There were huge parades down Shattuck Avenue featuring the Football Festival Queen and her princesses in formal gowns riding on floats.
On Saturday mornings, geology professor Norman Hinds led his class in football cheers. And before every Big Game, chemistry professor Joel Hildebrand delighted his class by magically transforming a red liquid into blue and gold.
Frequent sideline visitors included Chief Justice Earl Warren, who played clarinet in the Cal Marching Band during his college days (Robert Gordon Sproul was the drum major), and Chancellor Glenn Seaborg, a Nobel Prize-winning chemist who bragged that his name was an anagram for "Go Bears."
"And he was in our locker room after every game, win or lose," said Domoto. "I can't tell you how important that was to us. To be sitting in front of my locker, feeling sorry for myself because we got beat, and have the chancellor come in and talk to me personally for five or ten minutes - it was the greatest experience of my college life."
But there were inklings of things to come in the '60s when the team arrived in Austin to play Texas. The hotel manager told them the white guys could stay, but the black guys had to go.
"Coach (Pete) Elliot turned us around, and we all stayed together somewhere else," said tight end Tom Bates, who still holds the school record for most fumble recoveries and currently serves as Berkeley's mayor.
And that unity was - and is - the secret of their success.
"There's nothing anyone in this group wouldn't do for me, and vice versa," said end Bob Duey, whose identical twin, Dick, played fullback and linebacker. " When my brother died two years ago, all these guys were there for me."
It also helped that the best athlete on the team was also a charismatic leader who wouldn't let them quit - quarterback Joe Kapp.
Kapp, who went on to a stellar career in the NFL and later became the coach who broke Stanford's hearts in 1982 with "The Play," has reinvented himself once again - this time, as a winemaker.
His new vintage, "The Play" Cabernet, is a fundraiser for his charity, the What Do You Want To Be Foundation, which supports grassroots organizations that help kids stay away from gangs and drugs. The wine is currently available at Lunardi's markets. For details, visit his website, joekapp.com/)
Now, cabernet isn't the first beverage that comes to mind when you think of Joe Kapp, but tequila is out - at least for now.
"I swore in 1982 that I would never drink another drop of tequila until Cal goes back to the Rose Bowl," he said. "And I never have."
Memo to Jeff Tedford: Next year in Pasadena, OK? This man has suffered long enough.

How To Get A Butterfly Drunk

2010-10-16T12:57:00.000-07:00

It seemed as if everyone in Berkeley was celebrating last weekend's annual Homecoming at Cal - even the homeless people. On Saturday morning, I spotted a homeless man sitting on the curb at Bancroft and Telegraph, holding a hand-lettered cardboard sign that read, "Go Bears!"
Meanwhile, Sal Levinson, the UC Botanical Garden's "Caterpillar Lady," was leading a group of insect enthusiasts searching for drunken butterflies.
"Butterflies don't drink only nectar; they drink all kinds of stuff, including fruit that falls to the ground and starts fermenting," she explains. "And when that happens, they get tipsy and have problems flying."
You can see it for yourself in your own backyard.
"Just buy 10 pounds of grapes, take them home and stomp them," says Levinson, who calls caterpillars "the perfect pet."
"They're so cheap and so fascinating and so much fun. But the best part is that you never have to watch them die. You raise them, see the butterflies emerge, watch them fly away, and that's it. There are never any tears."
The Caterpillar Lady will lead her last butterfly walk of the season at the UC Botanical Garden on Oct. 26. For more information, visit berkeleybutterflyblog@blogspot.com/
Finally, I don't know what you're going to be doing on New Year's Day, but I know where Amit Pande of Dublin will be: He'll be riding an auto-rickshaw (basically, a rickshaw with a lawn mower motor) on a 3,000-mile trip across India to raise money and awareness to help solve the lack of access to clean water for millions of people in developing nations.
"More people in India have access to cell phones than have access to toilets," says Amit, who graduated from Cal last June.
Amit plans to stay off the beaten path and avoid the usual tourist destinations, camping out along the way or asking locals to put them up for the night.
"What would you rather tell your children? 'I took a tour bus to the Taj Mahal?' Or 'I remember the time my rickshaw broke down in the Thar Desert on our way to Mt. Abu, and we had to ride into the nearest town on our camel to get the parts to fix our vehicle?'"
The Rickshaw Run is hosted by a British adventure travel company called the Adventurists, whose philosophy is "fighting to make the world less boring." The goal is to raise money through online pledges for Frank Water, a charity that funds sustainable clean water projects in developing countries. Amit says more than 4,000 children die every day from water-borne diseases.
Each team is trying to raise $1,000 British pounds in pledges. If you'd like to contribute to Amit's team, visit www.bit.ly/dreamteamsupreme/
For Amit, whose parents grew up in India, this also will be a voyage of self-discovery.
"When I was a kid we used to go to India every two years, and I hated it - spending summer away from your friends, relatives pinching your cheeks, being covered with bug bites. having to eat Indian food.
"But now, as I continue to study and grow as a person, I feel an increasing pull to my roots. I want to see how my parents grew up and, more generally, I want to see how India is transforming into a global power and what this looks like for the rural population."

A Reporter Who Did His Job

2010-10-04T12:51:00.000-07:00

(Above: Andrew Meacham)

I'm not in the habit of praising other newspapers; but something remarkable happened at the St. Petersburg (FL) Times last week, and I want to tell you about it.
On Sept. 12 a 48-year-old Tampa man named Neil Alan Smith was struck by a hit-and-run driver as he was bicycling home from his work as a dishwasher at an eatery called the Crab Shack. His head struck a metal light pole, and he never regained consciousness, dying six days later.
The Times ran a brief story about the accident, and that was that - or so they thought.
But then a reader posted a comment - anonymous, of course - on the paper's website that said, "A man who is working as a dishwasher at the Crab Shack at the age of 48 is surely better off dead."
That impelled a Times reporter named Andrew Meacham to go back and revisit the story to find out what kind of man was Neil Alan Smith, whose life and death had been dismissed so cavalierly.
The first thing Meacham found out is that a lot of people miss him, including his landlady, who told Meacham that once, when she was worried that the power company would shut off her electricity because she hadn't been able to pay the bill, he gave her more money than she had asked to borrow and insisted she take it. "I'll never forget that," she said.
His co-workers called him steady and dependable, a man who showed up every day, rain or shine, biking four miles each way from his trailer park to the Crab Shack. He worked there for ten years - a virtual lifetime in a business known for heavy turnover - for the $7.25 per hour minimum wage.
"I'll probably go through another 10 people to find somebody like him," his boss said.
A native New Englander, he was a huge fan of the Celtics, Patriots and, of course, the Red Sox.
Aside from one open container violation in 2007, he was never in any trouble with the law. When he was hit by the car he was following all the rules, including wearing a safety helmet, light-colored clothing and reflectors, and staying in the bike lane.
His landlady plans to take his ashes to Boston and scatter a few at Fenway Park. Then she'll go to New Hampshire and lay the rest on his parents' graves - if she can find them.
In short, Neil Smith was a human being. He loved and was loved by others. He had both joy and pain in his life, just like you and me.
I called Meacham and thanked him for writing that story. He said he's gotten a lot of calls like that from reporters and editors around the country.
I think it's because he struck a nerve with the rest of us. In an era when newspapers are becoming an endangered species, he reminded us how important they really are.
I've heard people say that if newspapers go away, there will be nobody to keep an eye on the politicians, corporations and special interests that run our lives. And it's true: We need more Woodwards and Bernsteins, not fewer.
But we also need more Andrew Meachams, to remind us of our common humanity. He has brought honor to my profession. I hope he wins the Pulitzer Prize.

Life Line

2010-09-27T14:25:00.001-07:00

Congratulations to Terry Englehart, executive director of Senior Center Without Walls in Oakland, who was awarded a Jefferson Award for Public Service earlier this week.
I can't think of anyone more deserving. SCWW does more good for more people than any other organization I know.
As many aging Baby Boomers are discovering, getting old means aches and pains that often make it more and more difficult to leave your home. Your world shrinks down to your bedroom, and you get cut off from all the things you used to know and love.
That's where SCWW comes in. Even people who are homebound can still use the telephone. And that can be their gateway back to the wider world again.
Every week, SCWW offers dozens of different discussion groups, support groups and other telephone group activities, ranging from the silly to the serious. There are enough things going on to keep you busy from the moment you wake up in the morning to the moment you go to bed at night.
All you have to do is call in at the designated time and join the conversation. And get this: It's completely free!
So what's the catch? There isn't any. SCWW is sponsored by Episcopal Senior Communities as part of their non-denominational community outreach program, but you don't have to be Episcopalian to take part.
You don't have to live in Oakland, either. SCWW has active participants all over the Bay Area.
There isn't room here to list even a fraction of the many different discussion groups. But it's safe to say that whatever your interest, they probably have a group for it. Call toll-free 877-797-7299, and SCWW will mail you a complete schedule. Then sign up for the groups that interest you most, and you're off to the races.
As I said, there's no charge. But Englehart and her tiny, two-two person staff still have to pay for the conference calls. If you'd like to help, please mail a tax-deductible check to Senior Center Without Walls, 114 Montecito Street, Oakland CA 94610.
A few months ago, I had the honor of being the focus of one of the groups. I asked the participants, "What was the most memorable event of your life?"
"The feminist movement of the 1970s," said a woman named Lynn. "I had spent all my adult years fighting racial prejudice, and it finally dawned on me: When are women going to have our turn? I spent the next decade learning how to be a human being. Before that, I just learned to be a woman."
"It was 73 years ago, but I remember it as if it were yesterday," said Beatrice. "One of my neighbors was someone I called 'Uncle Larry,' and he was very good to me. He would take me to the candy store and buy me everything. One day I opened the newspaper, and a big headline said a member of Murder Incorporated had been gunned down. And there was a picture of Uncle Larry. I was only seven years old, and I was deeply touched."
But my favorite was Rosalee, who said, "It hasn't happened yet. I'm always looking forward to the next most wonderful thing. I've been in a wheelchair for 30 years, and I love this telephone community. I'm in love with you all."
And that's why we need Senior Center Without Walls.

Fighting The Good Fight

2010-09-20T11:17:00.001-07:00

Oakland and the music community lost a giant when Irwin Silber died Sept. 8 from Alzheimer's. He was 84.
Perhaps more than any other person, Silber launched the folk music boom of the 1950s and early '60s. He was the editor of "Sing Out!" a folk singing magazine he founded with Pete Seeger and folklorist Alan Lomax. (Their office secretary was the future playwright Lorraine Hansberry, who wrote "A Raisin in the Sun.")
Under his guidance, "Sing Out!" became a lonely voice of opposition to the McCarthy witch hunts, which caused Silber to be hauled in front of the House Un-American Activities Committee and asked the ominous question, "Are you now or have you ever been a member of the Communist Party?"
In Silber's case, the answer was yes. He had joined the party in 1942, when the Soviet Union was known as "our gallant Russian ally" and everybody, including conservatives like Winston Churchill, called Stalin "Uncle Joe." He quit in the mid-50s, after Khruschev's "secret speech" in 1956 revealed that Uncle Joe was actually a cold-blooded mass murderer.
He didn't want to answer the question because it was none of the committee's business. Besides, he knew the next question would be a demand to sell out his friends.
But he didn't want to invoke the Fifth Amendment - his right against self-incrimination - because he didn't think he had done anything wrong. What was so bad about that fighting for civil rights, social justice and peace? So he refused under his First Amendment right to free speech, instead.
Undaunted, the committee chairman tried to get the answer another way: "Did you ever teach at the Jefferson School?" (a Marxist academy in Manhattan)
"Yes."
"Aha!" said the chairman, zeroing in for the kill. "And what did you teach?"
"Square dancing," Silber replied.
The room exploded in laughter, and that was the end of that.
That's just one chapter in the life of this remarkable man, who produced the first hootenannys at Town Hall and Carnegie Hall, featuring blacklisted artists like Josh White, Sonny Terry, Brownie McGhee and Leadbelly.
"Leadbelly always dressed impeccably, onstage and off, wearing the spiffiest suits and carrying himself with great dignity," he told me. "It was his reaction against Alan Lomax's trying to dress him in overalls or prison stripes when he performed."
Every summer, Silber played softball with Paul Robeson at a Marxist summer camp in New Jersey called Camp Wochica (short for Workers' Children's Camp).
Robeson wrote the forword to Silber's first book, "Lift Every Voice." John Steinbeck wrote the forword to a later book, "Hard-Hitting Songs for Hard-Hit People." The title was suggested by Woody Guthrie.
He wrote 10 other books, including "Socialism: What Went Wrong?" "A Patient's Guide to Knee and Hip Replacement" and "Press Box Red," the story of Lester Rodney, a Daily Worker sports reporter who pioneered the campaign to integrate the major leagues.
For the last 30 years he lived in Oakland with his wife, jazz singer Barbara Dane. Appropriately, they fell in love on a May Day.
And he had no regrets - except one. In his later years, he regretted writing a scathing editorial in 1965 that ripped Bob Dylan for going electric.
Dylan responded by writing "Positively Fourth Street," which begins with the words "You've got a lot of nerve."

Back To School

2010-09-13T13:47:00.000-07:00

(Above: Sather Gate at noontime)

I was walking across the Cal Campus last Friday past the informational tables on Sproul Plaza representing everything from Young Socialist Alliance to Campus Crusade for Christ.
Right next to Sather Gate, an undergraduate a capella singing group was belting out sweet-sounding four-part harmonies.
And I couldn't help thinking, "How thrilling all this must be for the new freshmen!'"
The next day I was on campus again, just as the crowd was filtering out of Memorial Stadium after the football game against Colorado. (Cal won in a laugher, 52-7.) I ran into a group of Colorado students who were freaking out at the names of the campus buildings.
"Look at that!" one guy exclaimed in disbelief. "Cesar Chavez Student Center! Martin Luther King Jr. Student Union! How long has this been going on?"
"A long time," I said.
"But why?" they asked.
"This is Berkeley," I explained.
I didn't have the heart to point out the Free Speech Movement Café; I figured their minds had been blown enough for one day. But it reminded me once again what a special place Cal is - unlike any other in the world.
Speaking of special schools, many happy returns to the College Preparatory School in Oakland, which will celebrate its 50th birthday with an all-day party on Sept. 25.
College Prep lives up to its name: 100 percent of its graduates go on to four-year colleges. But more impressive than the numbers is the way they do it.
"I think the seriousness with which I was taken as a human being at College Prep made me expect to be treated seriously in college," says one recent grad. "I dealt with my professors as fellow adults, and it worked out really well."
College Prep was founded in 1960 by Mary Harley Jenks and her partner, Ruth Willis.
Jenks had been a philosophy major at Cal, but she was told that "no respectable university would hire a woman in philosophy." So she became an educator, instead.
The school was founded on the principle of "egalitarian modesty," meaning that they wanted the kids to be highly motivated but not elitist.
They started with five teachers and 35 students, plus a housekeeper named Rosie who made tuna fish sandwiches (heavy on the mayo, as everyone recalls) for the entire staff - starting an enduring tradition.
"To this day, we do not have a food program for the kids, but we feed the faculty every day," says Murray Cohen, the Head of School. "But not tuna fish sandwiches, though."
Today, College Prep has 52 teachers 350 students. The average class has only 13.5 students.
Perhaps the most important event in the school's history was something that didn't happen: In the mid-'70s College Prep was offered some prime property in affluent Lafayette. But in the end, they decided to stay in Oakland.
"It would have changed the nature of the school and made our principle of egalitarian modesty very difficult to sustain," Cohen explains.
Jenks chose the name "College Preparatory School" because she wanted to be clear about the school's mission, but Cohen admits that he and his colleagues have mixed feelings about it.
"It sounds like we're a preparation for something else, rather than an appreciation for what we have," he says. "We think of ourselves as a participatory school, not preparatory."

Bullish on the Bears

2010-09-11T11:13:00.001-07:00

(Above: Roy Riegels on his infamous wrong-way run that lost the 1929 Rose Bowl)

Berkeley has a long tradition of town-gown conflict, but next weekend the university and the city will get together to celebrate something everyone can agree on: the glorious history of Cal sports.
It's a new exhibit at the Berkeley Historical Society called "Golden Bear Pioneers: UC Sports & Athletic Traditions from Their Beginnings to 1945," and what treasures they have! Among them:
* A patch from the jersey worn by Cal running back Loren Hunt in the first Big Game in 1892. (Herbert Hoover was the Stanford team manager.)
* A football-shaped program from the fourth Big Game, featuring long (and, apparently, necessary) articles explaining how the game is played. They also have the program from the 1929 Rose Bowl, which Cal lost 8-7 because of Roy Riegels' wrong-way run.
* Lapel buttons reading, "I'm a stadium builder," which were given to contributors to the Memorial Stadium building fund in 1923. For a $100 donation, you got free Big Game tickets for five years, plus an option to buy tickets for the next five years.
* Action photos of tennis greats Helen Wills Moody and Helen Jacobs, football All-American and track star Brick Muller and the Olympic gold medal-winning 1932 Cal crew, shown at their moment of triumph as they edged out the boat from Italy at the finish line.
But my favorite photo is of Bill Rockwell, the original Oski, shown walking along the crossbar of the goal post (no kidding!) at Memorial Stadium on Sept. 26, 1941, when he appeared for the first time in the now-familiar letter sweater, baggy pants and oversized shoes.
Alas, he had so much fun being Oski, his grades quickly went south. At the end of the semester the Japanese attacked Pearl Harbor; so he dropped out of school, joined the Navy and won many medals as a fighter pilot. After the war he went back to Cal and got his degree in 1948.
The word "fan" comes from "fanatic," and that's what the curators of this exhibit, Keith Tower and Bart White, are. Tower, who attended Cal in the mid-70s, has been lovingly collecting Golden Bear memorabilia since he was a kid.
White, who graduated in 1995, didn't get the bug until he was an undergrad, but he's been making up for lost time. Taken together, their collections constitute the second-largest compilation of Cal sports stuff in the world, second only to the Bancroft Library.
"It's a very expensive hobby," White sighed. "And it's getting more expensive all the time, thanks to eBay."
I visited him while he was sorting through his treasures. The boxes and piles spilled out of his living room into the kitchen and hallway.
"We have an agreement that the stuff stays down in the basement and we get to live up here," said his wife, Michelle. "But, as you can see, this is not always true."
But she's a good sport about it, perhaps because she was a history major at Cal, so she understands the attraction of historical artifacts.
The exhibit will open Sept. 18 and run through March 26. It's on the first floor of the historic Veteran's Memorial Building, 1931 Center Street, and is open Thursdays, Fridays and Saturdays from 1 to 4 p.m. Call 510-848-0181 for more information.
Go Bears!