Happy Birthday, Charlotte!

Charlotte and Addie

Charlotte, our Basset hound, turns one year old today. She was born out in the country, near the town of Greenland, in northwest Arkansas. Her mother was named Ruslana and her father was named Mishka Baryshnikov. (Her human mother was a Russian lady, which explains the names.)

Charlotte arrived at our house on Christmas Eve, 2008. We weren't sure we wanted another dog. We were happy and very comfortable with the Basset we had -- Addie, a perfect pet who rarely barked, loved every human she ever met, took slow walks and slept a lot. But both Terry and I finally agreed that Addie need a playmate, a younger sister to keep her active and, um, help her lose a little weight. (Addie is sensitive about her full figure, so we try not to bring it up in front of her.)

Terry found Charlotte on the Internet, the 21st Century pure-bred puppy marketplace. We had found Addie on the Internet four years earlier, born on a farm outside St. Louis. Addie flew from St. Louis to Dallas and changed planes to come to Los Angeles, where Terry picked her up while we were living in Santa Barbara. Addie was a jet setter before she was four months old.

Charlotte's breeders had posted irresistible photos of Charlotte, and they had also received good online reviews from others who had purchased puppies from them. Charlotte had her papers and puppy shots. We decided we had to have her.

The problem was, she was in northwest Arkansas and we were in Dallas, almost 400 miles away. We decided it would be too expensive to fly her to Texas during the Christmas holiday. So we struck a deal with the breeders: we would meet them in the WalMart parking lot in Checotah, Oklahoma, about half way between us, and exchange cash for puppy on Christmas Eve. It almost sounded a drug deal, but it turned out to be a wonderful holiday adventure. Off we went, stopping for breakfast at the Texas-Oklahoma border. At the appointed hour, we pulled into the WalMart parking lot. We drove around until we found the car with the breeders, Olha and her husband Doyle. They got out and so did we. Olha held little Charlotte in her hands. She was sleepy and a little confused. We offered the cash and they gave us the puppy. The deal was done.

From the moment we held her, we loved her. She cuddled in Terry's lap, her little nose cold as ice. As we drove away from the WalMart parking lot in Checotah, she went back to sleep. We thought maybe she wasn't feeling well. But then we crossed the border back into Texas and she sprang to life. We pulled over at the rest stop near Sherman, and Charlotte quickly relieved herself and grabbed a drink of water. Nothing at all wrong with this girl!

When we got home, Addie wasn't sure what to make of this tiny creature who had invaded her space. She ignored her as much as Charlotte would let her. Following the advice of all the puppy manuals, Terry built a small crate for Charlotte to sleep in. Puppies are supposed to like enclosed, warm spaces until they grow older. Of course, we had conveniently forgotten that as a puppy, Addie had tipped over her crate the very first night and refused to sleep in it ever again. Since then, she's been sleeping on the bed with us. (Please stop with the lectures. We know. People are nuts to let their dogs sleep with them. Bad habit to get into. We should know better. Too late now.)

The first night, Charlotte howled and cried incessantly. She kept climbing up the wire on the side of the crate until she finally jumped over and escaped. End result? Two dogs have slept comfortably in our bed ever since, sometimes crowding their human bedmates for space.

From the moment she arrived, Charlotte has been a blizzard of activity. Unlike Addie, she needs to be in the middle of everything. She loves to find rocks outside and chew them. She likes to tear labels off the back sides of area rugs. (Who did this? Bad dog!) My socks are a particularly favorite chew toy. (No! Leave my socks alone!) She barks a lot and, like most hounds, has an operatic voice that projects somewhere near the baritone range. She especially hates it when, as she watches through the French doors, the neighbor dog relieves himself on our property. If allowed, she will return the compliment on his property as soon as possible.

We have purchased innumerable chew toys for Charlotte, but most are quickly destroyed. Only a set of large vinyl keys, now well scuffed with teeth marks, has survived more than a few days. Since we've moved to our little farm on Whidbey Island, she loves to be outside, roaming to find evidence of deer or other wild critters on the property. Our challenge has been to keep her from rolling in the evidence. Not an easy task, and not always successful.

At this moment, Charlotte and Addie are sleeping soundly, listening to the radio station I favor because it plays music from the 1940s and 50s. But I expect they will awake in awhile, demanding attention that must be paid.

Happy birthday, baby dog!

Crabapples

We have an elderly crabapple tree next to our house on Whidbey Island. It was likely planted right after the house was built in the early 1960s. In the spring, it is covered with beautiful pink and white blossoms that last just a couple of weeks. Then, in a month or so, it is covered with hundreds of little red crabapples, most no more than an inch or two in diameter.

When I grew up in the Pacific Northwest, I remember being warned not to eat raw crabapples. Very sour and nasty, and they caused what was politely called the Crabapple Two-Step. But my grandmother would occasionally bring out her crabapple jelly for us and spread some on a biscuit or scone. It had an intense flavor like no other. I haven't tasted anything like it since then. She also made pickled crabapples that were served as a side dish at Thanksgiving and Christmas. Those of us who sat at the kids' card table wouldn't touch them.

So, here I am 60 years later, with a crabapple tree of my own. At the same moment, we're all are living through the hangover of an era of waste, greed and excess that has made us less wealthy and more sober. I'm more aware than ever that nothing should go to waste, that the abundance of our planet should be treasured and used wisely. If you read the book of Genesis, it says that God gave us dominion over the earth and everything on it, which means we were given control but not ownership. It's ours to love and care for, not pillage and destroy. Big difference.

That's why it just seemed to make sense for us to make crabapple jelly this week. We picked about five quarts from our tree, cut them up, cooked them into a fragrant mush, drained the juice overnight, added sugar, boiled it all until it became jelly and poured it into sterilized jars. My grandmother, I know, was smiling and chuckling. It's ready now for Thanksgiving and Christmas. We can't wait.

I also learned from Wikipedia that, among Anglo-Saxons, crabapples were used as part of cure for almost anything. They were known as wergulu in Old English and were among the nine herbs that made up the Nine-Herb Charm. Essentially, you made a paste of the herbs, applied it where the ailing person hurt and then chanted this poem:

A snake came crawling, it bit a man.
Then Woden took nine glory-twigs,
Smote the serpent so that it flew into nine parts.
There apple brought this pass against poison,
That she nevermore would enter her house.

Well, since sub-prime mortgages, high-flying stocks and lots of shopping didn't make us feel better, why not give this a try?

Father's Day

My dad Orrin in 1938

My dad was quite a man. Full of dreams, many unfulfilled because he died so young -- only 47 years old. We were not alike and were not very close when I was growing up. But we have bond that seems only to have grown stronger in the 45 years since he died.

He always had too many projects going at the same time. He always looked for a bargain, almost never bought new or full-price. And he always wanted to do things himself, whether it was hand-digging a well, installing a furnace or building new kitchen cabinets. If he didn't know how to do it, he'd find somebody who did and learn from them. For many of his projects, I was his not-so-willing laborer. But now I'm happy with the memories.

When I was eight years old, my dad gave my sister and me "new" bicycles for Christmas. Actually, he put them together from junkyard parts that he hand-welded. They looked great to me, even if I had a hard time to learning to ride mine. He was impatient when it came to teaching me how to do things. If I didn't get it right away, he'd get angry or bored. I eventually mastered bicycle-riding on my own, after he gave up teaching me. The same was true of driving a car and any number of other things.

I was a bookish, awkward kid. Growing up, it seemed as if he knew how to do everything and I would never be as good or smart or clever as he was. It wasn't until I was middle-aged that it dawned on me that I had spent so much of my life trying to show my dad that was I worthy of his affection. Several years of therapy also helped me understand that such yearning isn't unique. Many boys feel inadequate compared to their dads and in striving to be like them or even better they build healthy self-esteem.

Today, I admit that I've become quite a bit like my dad. And, like Al Franken's character Stuart Smalley on Saturday Night Live, I'm good enough, I'm smart enough and doggone it, people like me. And Happy Father's Day, dad.

Lookin' Back, Texas

Luckenbach, Texas -- Home of Willie Nelson's July 4 Picnic

We didn't quite know what to expect when we arrived in Texas nearly five years ago. Being West Coasters by birth and disposition, we were intimidated by some stereotypes we had heard about. For instance, I expressed some fear that Southern Baptists might abduct us and send us off to a reeducation camp for recalcitrant Biblical relativists. We worried that, if word leaked we had voted for John Kerry, the Swift Boat Veterans for Truth (funded by a Houston gazillionaire) would torpedo our moving van. Dallas is Laura and Dubya's hometown, after all, and Dick Cheney lived here when he ran Halliburton.

Now, as we prepare to move to our new home in Washington State, I laugh when I think about the misconceptions and misplaced anxiety which afflicted us. Texas doesn't come close to living up to the stereotypes that smug Coasters assign to it. We've made lots of great friends here, found it easy to fit right in, and quickly came to adore Tex-Mex food. (I am fearful of serious withdrawals when we hit Puget Sound, where taco shells are sold in a box and salsa is canned.)

I remember the day we moved into our house. The movers took all day to unpack our stuff, and in the process the giant van blocked our neighbor's driveway for several hours. We rang her door bell to apologize for the inconvenience, not quite sure what to expect. Imagine our surprise to find that we had parked ourselves next to a native Texan who had spent 18 years working in Southern California. She had returned to Texas just a few years before. Even more surprising, she was an Episcopalian just like we are! And when we told her we were a gay couple, she didn't bat an eyelash and immediately told us she had friends she wanted us to meet. I saw the stereotypes evaporating before my eyes.

Later, I learned that Dallas had changed dramatically in the past couple decades, as more people moved here from all over the country. During our time here, the city has had a Jewish woman mayor, an African-American district attorney and a Latina sheriff who is also a lesbian. The city can sometimes seem more progressive than our old hometown of Los Angeles, that bastion of Hollywood liberals. Of course there are ignorant, intolerant, stupid people here, but they are as easy to tune out in Dallas as they are in California.

Throughout our years in Dallas, we have continually been surprised by the diversity of people, culture and geography here. It's been impressive to see how seriously this city works on improving its quality of life. The Meyerson Symphony Hall, designed by I.M. Pei, compares well with any in the world. The art museums house some of the finest collections anywhere. And the city is about to complete its downtown Arts Center by opening a new opera house and theater center.

So, dear Texas, please accept my sincere apology for underestimating how friendly, diverse and open-hearted you really are. Sure, you sometimes have swagger and attitude, but I finally figured out that you do it mostly with a wink to impress or scare non-Texans. I will miss your affection and hospitality. Thanks, y'all. And come on up and see us in Washington State.

The Long, Long Goodbye of General Motors

The 1977 Chevette

In the fall of 1975, I had recently become the auto writer in the Business section of the Los Angeles Times. I must confess I knew very little -- and cared very little -- about cars in those days. I had just ended my fling with a red sports car, a 1969 MGB that died a slow, painful death in 1974. I replaced it with a sensible yellow Chevy Nova. My Spanish-speaking friends later reminded me that "no va" in Spanish means "doesn't go." Appropriate, as a I think back on that car.

The newspaper had assigned me the auto beat because they thought a fresh eye from somebody who wasn't a "car nut" would bring a new perspective to coverage of that industry. Too often in the past, auto writers had been uncritical industry cheerleaders. In the mid-1970s, The Times decided to change that.

Among the first things I had to get used to as a newly minted auto writer were the extravagant junkets that auto companies sponsored to introduce new models. I was of the Watergate generation of reporters who didn't like taking even a free lunch from a news source. So imagine my conflict when I was told to cover the introduction of GM's Chevette, it's third attempt to compete with tiny cars from Europe and Japan. The first attempt was the Corvair. No need to say more about that. The second was the Vega, a genuinely innovative little car with an aluminum block engine and a European design. It failed miserably, however, so GM tried again by modifying a boxy little Chevy it had been building in Brazil for a few years.

To trumpet the arrival of the Chevette, GM invited the nation's auto writers to a junket in the Napa Valley. We stayed at the Silverado Country Club, and the splashy introduction itself took place during a wine-soaked five-course gourmet meal served at the beautiful Sterling Vineyards, overlooking the entire Napa Valley. The next day we drove the little cars on a "concours" through the wine country. I enjoyed the scenery, but I wasn't impressed with the car.

General Motors never quite understood the small car market, particularly in the 1970s. The negative attitude of GM executives toward Volkswagen, Renault, Toyota and Datsun (as Nissan was known then) was palpable: Little cars aren't sexy. They have no power. They're designed for poor people. And, worst of all, GM thought they weren't very profitable. GM's tradition was producing cars "for every purse and purpose," in the words of Alfred P. Sloan Jr., its visionary chief executive in the 1920s. The culture at GM was about moving people from cheaper cars to more expensive cars as they grew older and wealthier. You start in a Chevy and die in a Cadillac, they used to brag. GM's corporate structure and profitability were entirely dependent on that philosophy for more than 70 years.

So, given that attitude, it was no surprise that GM thought the Chevette was a car only for young and/or poor people. And it showed. The stripped-down Chevette Scooter model the company promoted as a "starter car" for the 1976 model year had no backseat as standard equipment. It had no carpet on the floor -- just black mats. It had a flimsy, floor mounted stick shift. It had painted bumpers -- no chrome unless you paid extra. And it had a rear-wheel-drive transmission. Is it any wonder that the Chevette compared badly against the spiffy, front-wheel-drive Volkswagen Rabbit that VW had just introduced to replace the original Beatle? Or that VW was opening an assembly plant in western Pennsylvania to produce the high demand for Rabbits it expected (and got) in the United States? (I remember a GM executive telling me that he thought VW's plant would fail within three years. It didn't.)

Today's bankruptcy filing by GM is the culmination of more than 40 years of myopic thinking at what was once the world's most successful company. GM's culture was so insular, so defensive and so smug that it let the rest of world walk away with its market. While GM was figuring ways to sell more Chevy Impalas and Cadillac Sedan de Villes, Honda was introducing the Civic and Toyota was selling the Corolla. Small cars that didn't feel cheap or poorly built -- and which became the best selling cars in America.

Let's hope that the keelhauling of GM in bankruptcy court will do what the marketplace has been unable to do for 40 years: get its head out of the sand.

Memories on Memorial Day

Me in Vietnam, 1969

This is the 40th Memorial Day since I was in Vietnam, a not-so-happy draftee serving with the 25th Infantry Division at a hot and dusty place called Cu Chi. Like most Vietnam vets of my acquaintance, I don't think much about the experience any more and I really don't like talking about it much. We got no parades when returned and we didn't win the war. Most of us just ditched the uniforms, grew our hair long and faded into our generation as quickly as we could. The last thing I ever wanted to do was tell war stories and drink beer at some VFW hall. I came away from it thinking Vietnam was just a big national misadventure that ended up doing little besides killing almost 60,000 Americans. Not a particularly popular position in VFW halls.

I was fortunate. Although I was drafted and trained to be a mobile radio operator with an infantry platoon, I never really was "out in the bush." Platoon radio operators were prime targets for snipers and their survival rate wasn't great. When I got to Vietnam, my journalism experience helped me talk my way into a job as communications specialist, writing press releases and articles for the Army newspaper at the division headquarters. I was also assigned a Polaroid camera to take pictures of the division commander and the wounded soldiers he visited in the makeshift hospital at the base in Cu Chi. My job was all about presenting a positive image for the Army and what our nation thought it was doing in that sad place. I call it my sportwriting period -- root, root, root for the home team!

I also was confused about my sexual orientation at the time, and very afraid to express what I was feeling to anybody. In other words, they didn't ask and I didn't tell. It was difficult to keep that kind of secret, always wondering who suspected and what would happen if the truth were known. I remember meeting a goodlooking Navy guy once who told me his job in the investigative unit was to get "queers to hit on him" so they could be drummed out and dishonorably discharged. He laughed about it, but it pained me to think about how many lives of decent, patriotic people they were wrecking. And I vowed that I would never become one of those statistics. I kept my secret. But if I had it to do again, I wouldn't. Why be part of a club that doesn't want me? All I had to do was raise my hand and I would have been spared the privilege of an all-expenses-paid trip to Vietnam -- keeping company with Dick Cheney, Bill Clinton, George W. Bush and a host of others with good connections or at least good luck.

I have made several visits to the Vietnam Memorial in Washington, D.C., and I cry every time as I read all those names of lives cut short. I also think about all those who have survived Iraq and Afghanistan but in horribly burned or mangled condition. Maybe it's almost better that so many of my generation didn't survive their Vietnam injuries, if their future would have meant the endless surgeries and hospitalization our Middle East veterans are enduring.

When we lived in Santa Barbara a few years ago, the local symphony used to give a free concert at City Hall every Memorial Day. A highlight came when they played the song associated with each branch of the service, and veterans of that branch were asked to stand as it was played and the crowd cheered. I got a lump in my throat when Terry and I stood as they played "The Caissons Go Rolling Along." Sure, we were reluctant warriors in a muddled war that maybe never should have been fought. But it felt good as people applauded us more than 3o years later. The applause we never heard when we came home.

Apple Blossom Time

Our house on Whidbey Island is almost finished at long last, and we will be moving in mid-June. In the side yard of our house stand four very old fruit trees -- three apples and one pear. I believe they were planted when the house was built in the early 1960s. They had not been pruned for many, many years, and they looked sad.

A couple of months ago, a friend who works for our construction company offered to prune them before the spring blossoms came. They really needed a haircut and now they look positively spiffy. When I was at the house early this month, I noticed that the apple blossoms were out. What a beautiful sight!

It is amazing how this world works. Gardens will produce abundant crops if you tend them. Fruit trees will bear food for many people if you look after them. They don't ask anything in return except our attention.

I expect that, when we get to Whidbey, we'll have lots of food to share.